A Valuable Commodity
by EvilFluffyBiteyThing
Summary: Two years have passed since the upheaval of the occupation; and, with no word from the Badlands, Terra Nova is prospering as Commander Taylor and his team are busy ensuring its future. Life is sweet, or so it seems; but there are others, both within and without, all of whom are equally busy - with agendas of their own.
1. Reflection

**Author's Note** : Hello, and welcome to my story! Before I begin, I'd like to start with a huge thank you to Female Fogbank, whose magnificent epics 'Displaced' and 'Game Change' inspired me to write this. I'm a bit of a late arrival in this universe, so any errors of placement, story logic or characterisation are down to misremembered episodes and/or off-beam research on my part.

I think people have commented elsewhere about the lack of stories which focus upon Malcolm - though, where he does appear he's well considered and/or very hilariously rendered (TNSN, anyone?). That said, as he has almost no back-story at all, he's a great character upon which to construct one, so I have. The back-story I've created is probably quite surprising - and I'm afraid you'll have to wait for a few chapters until it turns up, but I promise when we get there that there's method in my madness.

Finally, apologies to Washington fans - I'm sorry that I haven't found a way to bring her back, but her absence drives something of a bittersweet edge for Commander Taylor, so I opted for that part of the Occupation to stay intact.

I shall now shut up and get on with the story. Hope you enjoy - please let me know what you think!

 **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing except that which has originated from my imagination.

* * *

 **PART ONE**

 **TWO YEARS ON**

Chapter One

 _Reflection_

The sun has been up for nearly an hour, lifting the wisps of mist from the thickly leaved canopy and bathing the forest clearings with light. Amidst the gradually shortening shadows, Jim Shannon stands on his porch and breathes in deeply, still savouring the novelty.

Air that doesn't choke - a sky that isn't brown. Even now, he revels in the ability to indulge in the simple pleasure of going for a morning run; something that would have been utterly impossible back in Chicago - with or without a rebreather - and, if he is truly honest with himself, something he probably still wouldn't be doing if he hadn't been inducted into the habit a couple of years back.

Stepping off the porch, he eases into a gentle jog. Always the same time, always the same route; partly because he can't switch off his security hat and wants to check things on a daily basis, partly so he doesn't have to concentrate too much on where he's going. He doesn't, strictly speaking, need breathers either - but there are several points along the route that he stops to make his daily checks rather than glancing as he passes by. Even that is now habit, and he doesn't need to think about it.

As he goes, he sees the usual people who are up and about at such an hour; stallholders heading to the marketplace to set up, security personnel going off, or on, duty. He is such a fixture that people claim to set their watches by him - and he exchanges a wave now and again with a fellow regular. On occasion, he likes to pretend that he's in some hokey movie musical - and merely needs an orchestra to start up so he can break into song. And possibly a small chorus of cartoon gallusaurs dancing about nearby to do the backing vocals. Preferably in tuxedos and spats.

Jim is not normally one for reflection; once it was pointless, now it's unnecessary. That said, with the approach of their Commemoration ceremony, the Colony of Terra Nova always seems to sink into a collectively reflective mood, and he is no exception.

Until two years ago, it seemed such a benign thing - an annual festival of contemplation for those that they have lost; they observed it quietly and simply alongside the altogether more brightly celebrated Harvest Festival and the Solstices. But then the forces of corporate greed viewed their new world with eager eyes, determined to plunder it for resources to take the place of those that had been stripped from the old one. Wresting their colony back cost thirty lives, and damaged many more through bereavement and loss. Rather than institute another day to remember the occupation, they have simply added it to the day that they already have. Thinking it over, he might well have completely severed their ties to the future - but given what the future was trying to do to them, he doesn't regret it for a moment.

He pulls up beside the boundary fence - one of his 'breather' stops. Being close to the encroaching forest, it is inclined to be damaged more frequently by the thorny brush; but today it's in good condition, and he doesn't linger. Resuming that same, steady lope, he moves on to happier thoughts.

Today is the day that his son formally opens the hitherto seedy bar run by Tom Boylan as a rather more upmarket hangout. While Jim has never been overjoyed at Josh's acceptance of a job at the place, he has proved to be such a useful employee that the cynical Australian has handed the bar over to him to run as manager while he does what he can to overcome the rather awkward issue of having a bar, but no booze. Lacking Taroca root thanks to a blight a year ago and with no more pilgrimages for the foreseeable future - if ever - Boylan has lost access to any renewed supplies, and the last of his alcoholic beverages ran out nearly a month ago. Thus, he is intent on brewing his own beer - assuming he can persuade Commander Taylor to let him grow the requisite botanicals to do it. His attempts to use other fruits have, so far, proved rather disastrous.

Jim's jog takes him on past rows of houses - all single storey, all the same - on the outside, at least. More people are about now as the agriculture teams are going out to the fields to prune, check, or whatever it is that growers do in fields that seem quite capable of looking after themselves without any assistance whatsoever. Having the blackest thumbs in the world, Jim avoids anything to do with agriculture - he is quite convinced he'd kill the entire harvest just by standing next to it.

The rest of his run is entirely uneventful, other than the brief inconvenience of a stone flipping into one of his shoes, and by the time he returns home, the rest of the family is emerging. He exchanges a brief kiss with Elisabeth, his wife, dodges around Zoe, his youngest, and bags the bathroom for a shower.

Elisabeth is setting out fruit and soya yogurt for breakfast by the time he returns, while Maddy, his elder daughter, carefully slices at some spelt-flour bread. The supplies of wheat flour that they were used to dried up at the same time Boylan's booze did, and, while the soya has proved to be highly successful, no modern strains of wheat have thrived at all; so instead someone has been experimenting with the local grains, and the results are surprisingly good. It seems that, no matter what they have lost in terms of supplies, there's always a handy gift from the Cretaceous to replace it.

Zoe, now a robust seven year old, is busy with her plex, checking over the homework she did last night, "What're you doing?" Jim asks her, conspiratorially, as he sits beside her at the table.

"I want to make sure my math is right, Daddy." She advises, solemnly, perusing a sequence of simple calculations. She has come a long way from pretending to have stomach aches so she can stay with her Mom instead of going to school.

"When's your newspaper coming out?" a guaranteed favourite topic. She has won the coveted job of editing her school-year's newspaper - admittedly an online affair distributed wirelessly via plex rather than a proper printed broadsheet - but to be granted the editorship is a sign of a well-regarded student. She may not have her elder sister's brilliance, but she is smart, hard working, eager to learn and absorbs every opportunity without hesitation.

"On Wednesday," she says, looking up at him as Elisabeth sets a dish of fruit and yogurt in front of her, "I just need to ask Commander Taylor if he'll let me take a picture of him."

"Ah yes," Elisabeth smiles, "the interview. He was very pleased when you asked him, you know. I think he gets a bit worried that people think he's a bit scary."

Zoe laughs, "He isn't, Mommy!" she says stoutly, "he's nice, and I like him a lot!"

"You like everyone." Maddy advises, cheerfully, as she flicks through pages on her own plex.

"Where's Josh?" Jim looks about, suddenly realising that his son is not present.

"At the bar." Elisabeth says, sitting down with some toast, "He wants to make sure tonight's launch goes well."

"Mainly because he hasn't got any alcohol." Maddy adds, cheekily.

* * *

A very solid looking vivarium sits on a bench in a locked office, well secured in the middle of the Research Laboratories. On the other side of the door, grateful to be two hours from her breakfast, Maddy looks through the window at the occupant, and shudders slightly with mild nausea.

"An ancestor of _Hottentotta tamulus_ , the notorious Indian red scorpion." She turns to see Malcolm Wallace standing nearby, "Nasty little bug…sorry, _thing_." He corrects himself, hastily, "We nearly lost someone to one of those in the orchard last year. Never seen anything quite that toxic before - or that aggressive." He crosses to the door to stand beside her, looking through the window, "They seem to be getting more common - hence the specimen in there. We're trying to develop an antivenin."

"Trying, Doctor Wallace?" Maddy asks.

"'Trying' being the operative word - in every context. It's never been easy to find an effective antivenin to any scorpion venom - but if these things are moving in, then your Mother wants to make sure the agri-teams have emergency supplies in the fields in case more people get stung. Oh - and please call me Malcolm. Everyone does."

She nods, though she feels most uncomfortable looking away from that scorpion, even though it's behind thick glass and a locked door.

"I'm told that you've become particularly proficient in biochemistry." Malcolm continues, conversationally, "So I'm hoping that you'll take this on. The analysis, that is. I'm not going to introduce you to the specimen; he's too dangerous. If we need any venom, I'll be the one collecting it."

"Is it really that dangerous?"

"Yes, it is. That scorpion packs a serious punch: the only venom I've come across that's comparable is tetrodotoxin."

"From puffer-fish?"

Malcolm nods, "It's not quite the same, but very similar in composition. A lot of scorpions have neurotoxic venoms, but not all - I suppose this one either went extinct, or its venom changed its composition as it evolved. This one is quite unique - we were lucky that it was, though: it doesn't seem to cause any long-term damage, but as the initial paralysis eventually causes respiratory failure, that's rather irrelevant. The only treatment we have at the moment is to put a sting victim on life support until they metabolise the toxin. Once they do, then they're fine - but if we don't get to them in time then it's something of a moot point."

"Doesn't tetrodotoxin have some potential medicinal applications?"

Malcolm looks pleased at her interest, "As an analgesic, yes - though whether this could have the same effect isn't something we've had the chance to find out. Are you interested?"

"When can I start?"

He regards her with mild amusement, "You are _so_ like your mother was at your age. Eager to get started on a project. I imagine you'll be just as determined to get to the end of it, too."

Maddy is not embarrassed; she is well aware of her mother's history with the Chief Science Officer, and that the entire business is thoroughly and absolutely in the past where it belongs. Instead, she follows him to a cleared workbench, "This is your workstation." Malcolm advises her, "Everything you'll need is close by; if you can't find something, just let me know. You won't be able to get into the room where I'm keeping the scorpion - only your mother and I have the code, and you need it to open the door in either direction."

"Mom has it?" Maddy asks, surprised.

"In case I get stung. I message her when I'm planning to open the vivarium, so she's ready to drop everything and come running with respiratory equipment if I do." He smiles at her consternation, "I'm probably being over-cautious; well, I'm almost _certainly_ being over-cautious, but that venom acts surprisingly quickly. I think it takes probably about half an hour from initial sting to the diaphragm and intercostal muscles grinding to a halt - give or take another fifteen to twenty minutes or so. We've only had one incident, so no one's quite sure."

"Then I'm glad I'm not going in there."

"I imagine your Dad will be, too."

* * *

Commander Nathaniel Taylor is sitting at his desk, staring off into space while his plex sits untouched on the glass tabletop. As he enters the Command Centre, Jim doesn't need to ask why Taylor is distracted. He knows exactly why.

He doesn't need to speak: Taylor slowly rejoins reality unassisted, "Two years, Shannon. It's been two years." He shakes his head, as though in disbelief at how time has flown since they reclaimed their home and cut themselves off from the one they'd left.

"Two years in which we've done pretty well." Jim reminds him.

The Commander nods, "That, I can't deny. The way everyone came together to make this place work has been inspirational. I just wish that certain people had been here to see it."

"So do I." Jim admits, drawing up a chair and sitting down, "She'd be so proud of what you've achieved with this place." He knows that it's a sore point, so he changes the subject, "Coming to the grand launch tonight?"

"If you think I won't scare people away." Taylor looks cynical.

"I doubt it. Josh is going for the non-violent clientele, so they'll have no issues with you. There aren't gonna be any fights if no one can get drunk." Jim drawls.

"Something I never thought I'd see. Family night at Boylan's."

"Worth the admission price alone. Be there or be square." Jim signs off and heads back out again. As he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he sees a lone figure standing nearby.

"If you want to go up, he's not busy, Skye." Jim advises, quietly.

She looks uncertain, "I don't want to bother him."

"Come on - he's still practically your dad."

"I know; but with Commemoration next week…" her voice trails off.

"Not going up, then?"

"Maybe not." She sighs.

"How about you come with me and we go see if Josh is running around like a headless chicken?" Jim offers.

She smiles, just a little, "Now that sounds like an offer I can't refuse."

At first glance, the bar seems no different from the way it's always been, except for the lack of alcoholic beverages. Rather than looking panicked, Josh is behind the bar and seems almost unnervingly relaxed, "Hi Dad." He nods cheerfully at Skye in greeting, and she smiles back.

"What - no emergencies?" Jim asks in mock disappointment.

"Only if Sal can't get the grills alight." Josh nods through to an outside courtyard, where one of the food vendors from the market is setting up under a canvas awning, "She's the best grill cook in the colony, and she was looking for somewhere to run a stand in the evenings. I can't believe Boylan wouldn't let her."

"What - and _share_ the profits?" Skye asks, scandalised. She smiles and looks around the bar, "Need a hand with anything?"

"Not unless you like mixing juices."

"I _love_ mixing juices." She says, only half jokingly. Their relations might still be tentative, but even Jim can see there's still something there. He is surplus to requirements, then.

"I'll leave you to it." He says, pretending to sound miffed that they don't need his help, "See you later."

* * *

"She's working with a _scorpion_?" Jim asks Elisabeth as they change in their room ready to go out, his expression highly dubious.

"Don't speak about Malcolm like that." Elisabeth chides, jokingly, "He's not that bad."

"Come on Elisabeth - if it's that thing that nearly killed Paul Toms last year then I think I have a right to be concerned." Jim persists, protective to the last, "Is that why you didn't tell me what she was going to be doing?"

"I didn't tell you what she was going to be doing because I didn't know until today." Elisabeth soothes him, "Believe me, she's not going to be working with the scorpion itself - she's not even allowed into the room where it's being kept. Only Malcolm and I have the key code. The only other people who would be able to get in would be you and Commander Taylor."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? It's poisonous!"

"I know that - so does Malcolm. Maddy's not a little girl, Jim; she's ready for the responsibility of taking on a research project, and this one suits her abilities and interests. She might be too squeamish to be a doctor, but she still wants to have some impact on what we do in the infirmary. If she can't access further education any more, then this is the next best thing. Regardless of your opinion of Malcolm, he's a good teacher and he knows what he's doing. The only person he's putting at risk with that creature is himself."

"Yes, but he's a pompous English a…" he gets no further, as she silences him with a kiss.

"Stop worrying, Jim." She smiles as she breaks from him, "Maddy's more than capable of completing this project, and I could do with a worthwhile antivenin. Even if we can't synthesise one, there are still some clinical applications for that venom, so we could get our hands on a highly effective analgesic."

He grins cheekily, "I love it when you talk dirty."

"Which is Jim-speak for 'I haven't the first idea what you're talking about but I think you sound dead sexy when you say it'?" She prompts, teasingly. Then she laughs, "Talking dirty or not, we've got a party to get to."

Jim sighs, theatrically, "Down, boy."

* * *

The bar still known as Boylan's is alive with light as the Shannons cross the marketplace, and there are already a surprising number of patrons present: chatting, sipping at vividly colourful drinks and grazing on grilled morsels of marinated Xiphactinus. Across from the bar, a small folk band is playing a jaunty tune, which immediately attracts Zoe, Maddy in tow, to bounce happily on the open space in front of their stage.

"What's in this?" Jim asks, reaching for a glass of something very pink.

"Blood orange juice, lime and mint." Skye advises, apparently now also bar staff, "There are sweeter mixes - but that one's quite tart, a bit like fermented taroca juice."

"Which I seriously do not miss. Not when people are completely blasted on it." He takes a sip, and blinks, surprised, "Hey, this is good."

"And it won't give you a hangover, Mr Shannon."

Pink drinks in hand, Jim and Elisabeth find themselves a corner to sit and watch as Maddy is danced into the ground by Zoe. Jim smiles fondly as the smaller girl bounds about with such energy - something that could never have happened had he not smuggled her into this new world. Whatever regrets he might have in this life, he does not regret that.

The bar starts to become busier as more people arrive. Perhaps it is no surprise that the more boisterous clientele have opted not to bother - but it has instead made space for people who wouldn't normally consider coming to Boylan's punch-up emporium. There are several youngsters now bouncing about to the music of the little band, and Maddy has been evicted from the dance group, much to her relief, as she has noticed the arrival of her boyfriend.

"Don't look, darling." Elisabeth jokes, smiling. Jim's relationship with Mark Reynolds is as traditionally 'protective dad' as it's possible to get, though she is quite convinced that he's not overly serious about it. Mark has proved to be such an exemplary gentleman with Maddy that a proposal seems almost inevitable. Assuming he can summon the courage to ask, of course.

"Mr Shannon." Mark greets him, formally.

"We're not on duty, Mr Reynolds," Jim reminds him, yet again, "I'm only 'Sir' or 'Mr Shannon' when you're in uniform. If I have to, I can formally order you to call me 'Jim'."

Elisabeth fights with herself not to laugh as Mark visibly tries to force the word 'Jim' from his lips, "Yes…Jim." He finally spits out.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Jim tells him, "Now, go dance with my daughter."

"Yes…Jim." Mark is a little less hesitant the second time, leading Maddy to the dance floor as Taylor approaches, a glass of something green in his hand.

"Commander," Elisabeth smiles, standing to give him a peck on the cheek, "You made it."

"Please, Elisabeth - if Reynolds can call your husband 'Jim', do me the favour of calling me 'Nathaniel' while we're off duty." Taylor sits down, "I probably won't stay long; just wanted to see your boy rub Boylan's nose in it. He thought tonight would bomb."

"It's the first night." Jim admits, "The novelty might wear off."

"Not if Sal keeps grilling." Elisabeth smiles, waving a handful of denuded skewers.

Taylor is true to his word, and stays only for a short while. By the time he departs, however, the bar is busy, the music is lively and everyone seems to be having the night of their lives. Sitting back, Jim reaches for Elisabeth's hand and squeezes it tightly, "If I ever think we did the wrong thing coming here. Kick me."

She smiles at him, "With pleasure."


	2. Reshuffle

Chapter Two

 _Reshuffle_

Taylor stares at his daily log, and sighs. So far, he has written the date.

Somewhere outside he can hear rustling as some creature or other works its way through foliage; while the general chatter of the marketplace floats up through the louvred blinds. There's plenty to record - but he can't find the energy to do it; not when he has another, altogether more dreaded, piece to write.

He needs to compose a speech for Commemoration - mainly because if he doesn't, he'll probably not be able to say anything at all. Given how decisive and firm he he would normally be, it freaks everyone out if he's struck dumb.

 _What do I say this year, Wash?_

Alicia Washington, excellent deputy and valued friend - though he was too haunted by the ghost of Ayani to seek out more than that. She's been gone two years, and there's still an enormous hole in his world that he can't find any means to fill. There was always more time. _Always_ more time.

And then there wasn't.

How many times had she saved his life? Been there when he needed someone to talk to? Always present, always ready to listen, and then she was taken away from him. By his own son.

His rugged face creases into a scowl at the thought of Lucas. This is the one time of the year that he tries so hard to avoid thinking of that moment when he and Skye looked across at that fallen body, only to find that it was no longer there. After what he did; he doesn't deserve to be remembered during Commemoration. The guilt and sadness Taylor feels the rest of the time can come back when it's over.

No. Commemoration is for people who deserve it; for the people who gave their lives for their homes. For her.

He looks at the log: still just the date.

Why didn't he take that step? He wanted to, and he's sure that Wash did, too. Sure, she would've had to resign as his deputy - but Shannon could've taken her place. Hell, he _has_ taken her place. Would it have made a difference if she hadn't been the second in command? He shudders as he realises that it almost certainly wouldn't. Wash could never have taken the invasion lying down. Civilian or not, she would've fought and died just like she did as a soldier.

He is jerked from his reverie by a sudden shout of laughter from outside, presumably at a joke, though he didn't hear the punchline that inspired it. Oddly, it's a comforting sound - a sign to him that, no matter what was lost, what they have saved is worth it, _more_ than worth it.

Setting his melancholy mood aside for a while, he starts to dictate; only for the _ping_ of an incoming message to interrupt him.

 _Dammit_. With a flick of his finger, he accepts the notification, and finds himself with another complaint about Malcolm cancelling someone's research project.

"God, not again." He groans to himself, when are these damned scientists going to stop whining about their cancelled projects? Don't they realise that they're never going to get their papers into any scientific journals any more? Perhaps, if he ever has the time, Malcolm will start one just to give them the chance to indulge - but when they are laying the foundations for their very survival, fancy-pants high-concept science will just have to wait.

He looks up at the sound of footsteps, to see the man himself in the doorway.

"I got the complaint." Taylor confirms, looking at the scowl on Malcolm's face, "I take it you didn't give Doctor Chang a shiny new toy to make up for taking his project away?"

Malcolm stuffs his hands in his pockets, "I'm really sorry about this, Commander. There aren't many diplomatic ways of telling someone that they can't carry on their research anymore - not when people think their project is some kind of scientific holy grail. I chose people for their expertise; the egos come as part of the package, I'm afraid."

Taylor casts a slightly sidelong glance at his Chief Science Officer, who has the grace to redden somewhat. Malcolm's ego is barely less enlarged; or fragile, for that matter. To be fair, he's grown up considerably since he first arrived, and he certainly more than proved himself during the occupation; but still, he can be as much of a diva as the rest of his staff now and again when the mood takes him. At least - unlike his staff - he knows it.

"I've reassigned him to the aeroponics unit." Malcolm adds, "They need his skills there - but he prefers to spend his time with the mass spectrometer, so I think actually going out and getting up close and personal with gooey plant substrates isn't what he had in mind when he accepted a place on the Seventh."

"I think I understood about thirty percent of that statement, Malcolm." Taylor advises, dryly, "Suffice to say he's got something else to be getting on with. I'll have a word with him; try to reinforce your advice."

"I'd appreciate that, Commander. I'm not sure how much more diplomatic I can be - but I'll try. I've had projects halted myself, so I know what it feels like - and I know how silly people can get about it." He admits.

"If it's any help, I'll send out a general reminder asking them not to involve me unless you've actually killed them."

"Believe me, Commander," Malcolm grumbles, "At this rate, that could well happen."

Malcolm is departing as Jim arrives, and they exchange a brief nod before Jim mounts the steps to the Command Centre and wonders what kind of mood Taylor will be in.

"Another complaint about our favourite Malcolmus?" he asks, as he breezes in.

Taylor nods, "I can't blame Malcolm - he's only doing what I told him to; but it's causing me a whole lot of grief. They can't seem to work out their problems like grown-ups over there." He shrugs the problem aside, "Anything going on that I should know about?"

Jim shakes his head, "Not right now. Everything's quiet in the compound, and there's no sign of any trouble outside it either. That deserted encampment we know of is still deserted - and there's no sign of any human life within twenty clicks or more."

"I wouldn't mind knowing what's going on _beyond_ twenty clicks or more."

"That's something we can talk about later." Jim says, planning to save his suggestion for the senior staff meeting.

"Fair enough. How did your boy's big night go in the end?"

"Pretty good. Boylan saw the takings this morning and had the good grace to keep his mouth shut. I guess he wasn't expecting it to go that well without alcohol in the house and a few rogue card games on the side. Now we get to see if the 'Boylan's Coffee Place' experiment works out. Coffee's the one thing that he _did_ have some luck with growing."

"It would be good to see old Tom chewing his liver out to see that place doing fine without his illegal behaviour." Taylor muses, a slightly wicked smile tugging at his lips, "Wipe that cynicism off his face."

"Well, he's the one getting the profits, so it's not like he's going to sabotage the place. It wasn't making a terra while he was trying to find a way to get more booze back into it." Jim smirks, "I don't think he's ever been this law abiding before."

"Enjoy it while it lasts." Taylor's voice drips sarcasm.

"I think that's about it until the meeting. I'll see you later."

Taylor nods as he departs, and goes back to his dictation.

* * *

Seated at her workstation, Maddy reads through the results on her plex and sighs: another failed test. While Malcolm has warned her that scorpion venoms are infuriatingly resistant to antivenins, she didn't really believe him; and she is being obliged to learn that science isn't necessarily speedy when it comes to getting worthwhile results. Having assumed it would be a reasonably straightforward task to identify the components of the venom and counter them, she is beginning to wonder if she's any good at chemistry at all.

She looks about to see where Malcolm is, and stares in surprise to see him bent over a desk in the locked room where the scorpion lives. Given that no one else will go near it, she approaches rather tentatively, and knocks on the door. Looking up, he nods and lets himself out.

"Sorry Maddy - it's the one place I can go at the moment where no one bothers me."

"With that thing in there? I'm not surprised." She admits, then shows him her results.

"Ah." He nods, "That's a shame - that compound looked pretty promising on paper. That's the way it goes sometimes, I'm afraid. I wouldn't get too fixated on a positive result - sometimes there isn't one."

"I know - it's just…" she looks very disheartened.

"You wanted to do a quick job on your first research project?" Malcolm finishes.

She nods.

"You might not believe it, but you are, you know. Negative results are just as valuable as positive ones - the trick is realising that. We record what doesn't work, and we keep going until we find something that does. If it's any help, it took Clair Patterson six _years_ to complete his dissertation, because he couldn't find an uncontaminated specimen of rock. He got his answer in the end - and it's barely changed since. Not only that, it's thanks to him that it got out that we were poisoning ourselves with atmospheric lead - and he found _that_ out purely because of his problems trying to get hold of specimens to test."

"Maybe - but he was trying to calculate the age of the Earth." Maddy says, wondering where Malcolm is going with his pep talk.

"And you're trying to find something to make sure that little arachnid in there and his friends don't kill people. I'd much rather we got it right than got it fast. Slow and methodical beats quick and slapdash every time."

"I hadn't seen it that way." She admits.

"That makes you no different from anyone else in the labs, then. We've all been where you are, and we all thought the same thing you did." Malcolm advises her, sagely, "I've had a bit of a dig, and I've found some medical papers covering the development of other antivenins which might be helpful. I'll send them to you when I get a spare minute. There might be some other options we can filch."

"Filch?" Maddy has never heard such a term before.

"Steal." He translates.

"Steal? You?" she stares at him in mock horror.

"Naturally. I'm a scientist, how else do you think we get papers published?" he quips as he turns back to the locked door.

"Doesn't it worry you, being in there with that thing?" Maddy asks, frowning through the window at the vivarium and its occupant.

"Believe me, it's better than having angry scientists complaining at me." He pauses as his plex pings to alert him to a message. Reading it, he snorts with amusement and shows Maddy the text.

 _I'M NOT COMING ANYWHERE NEAR THE LAB UNTIL YOU GET RID OF THAT EFFING SCORPION._

She frowns again, "Effing?"

* * *

Elisabeth reads through the results of Maddy's latest test, hand delivered by her supervisor, "So, nothing's worked yet?"

Malcolm shakes his head, "Not so far. She's getting discouraged, I think. I hope I headed her off at the pass with a pep talk - I'd hate to lose her so early on. She's singularly talented."

"Don't worry about that - she's got a lot of grit. She'll keep at it until she gets a result, even if it's not the one she was expecting."

"She _definitely_ takes after her mother." Malcolm smiles, then his expression changes slightly, "Ah, I think one of your patients is looking distinctly unwell." He is backing off, and Elisabeth turns just in time to witness a rather pale young man vomit lavishly into a basin held by a sympathetic nurse. Being used to such unpleasantness - as both a doctor and a mother - she is unconcerned, but she is also well aware of how other people react to emesis. Jim is just as bad.

"Sorry about that," she turns back to see that Malcolm is now standing halfway across the ward and looking resolutely in the other direction, so she crosses to join him, "He thought he was eating an edible mushroom in his dinner last night, but it turns out that he wasn't. He'll be doing that rather a lot for the next few hours, I'm afraid."

"I do not envy him in the slightest."

"Don't worry about Maddy, Malcolm." Elisabeth assures him, "She's very good at learning from her mistakes, or from setbacks. Just keep encouraging her."

"Will do. Oh, by the way, I'll need to get some more venom out of that scorpion this afternoon. I'll let you know when I'm going in."

"Sounds like fun."

"I suspect it'll be more fun than that boy's having." Malcolm shudders at the sound of more puking.

"See you in half an hour." Elisabeth smiles, as he beats a hasty retreat.

* * *

Taylor sits back from his plex with a sigh of relief. All his incoming messages have been answered, his log is updated, and he has a few spare minutes to stand on the balcony and get some air before the senior staff arrive for their weekly briefing. Before he gets up from his desk, he looks over the message he received a week ago, and wonders how his team will take the news he's about to spring on them.

Sooner or later, they're going to run out of luck; he is not fool enough to think that these halcyon days will last forever. Their technology is working fine, but what if it stops? What if they lose the Eye? What would happen to them if the bio-beds in the infirmary became nothing more than beds?

He needs to go more low-tech; to have that on standby, ready and waiting to spring into action should they lose their technology. All that stands between them and a slow descent into savagery is their reliance upon electronics. If they were to lose that - then holding the colony together would be next to impossible. They can synthesise antibiotics - but who amongst them can weave cloth or make shoes?

The answer to that dilemma has been busy in a distant corner of the colony since the people who look after it came in on the Seventh pilgrimage. Most people don't know what they do, and those who _do_ know tend to view them with amusement or scorn. Or both.

Today, however, that will have to change.

* * *

Compared to most of the colony, the far end, well away from the houses, is a much dirtier and noisier place, the experimentation here being based on technologies far older than those upon which Terra Nova tends to rely.

"The tuyere's blocking again, Max." One of the men tending the prototype blast furnace reaches for an iron pole and bends to start bashing the slag out of one of the four air pipes that feed oxygen into the smelting meteorite ore within.

Unlike the muscular men around her, Yseult Maxwell is of medium height and build, her long brown hair gathered up into a bushy ponytail to keep it away from the heat. Crouching beside her colleague, she nods, "That should do it. Keep watching, we shouldn't be too far away from obtaining a bloom."

To call the rather diminutive structure a 'blast furnace' seems rather optimistic, as it is still highly experimental; until Pete, her capable woodsman, had established a sensible coppicing regime in the primitive oak woods that encroached into the back of Terra Nova, she couldn't have got this far - the amount of charcoal would have been impossible even for those enormous woods to supply. Not that they had access to ore until the Sixers abandoned the mines.

"What time are you meeting Taylor this morning?" her assistant, Mike, asks.

"Half past eleven. I think he wants to warn his senior team about me first."

"I bet they'll have one hell of a shock to have one of the Mickey Mouse brigade in their company."

She sighs at the edge of scorn in Mike's tone. They all rather resent being thought of as a bunch of useless freeloaders who spend their days messing about with waterwheels, millstones, looms and ancient strains of wheat; but Commander Taylor recruited them for a reason, and now it seems that their time has come.

"You only have to look at them, Mike." She smiles, "Now that their clothes are starting to look so worn, it's dawning on people that if they want new ones, they have to make them entirely from scratch. Maybe we should charge for our services. That would make them appreciate us a bit more, wouldn't it?"

"Hell, yeah. I wanted to punch out that jerk from the science labs last week when he asked why we were wasting our time pruning wild trees."

"Which one was that?"

"No idea. Pete, I think his name was. Or Paul. Maybe Phil. It began with a P."

"I'll look out for him and hit him with my superior status."

"Only if it comes with a rover." Mike grins, "It's a hell of a walk back to the Command Centre."

"Why do you think I requisitioned the bike?" She looks at her watch, "Actually, I'd better go - I can't walk into a meeting covered in charcoal dust."

"I'd give good terras to see the looks on their faces if you did."

The journey back to her home takes only a quarter of an hour on her bicycle; it would be more than twice that on foot; and she is glad she pushed for it to come through with the Tenth Pilgrimage. If she hadn't, she'd be walking - their smelting efforts are too experimental to allow her to build a bike herself.

Showered and changed, she starts to gather together a few bits and pieces to demonstrate her work. As she does so, she looks across at a framed photo of a man with red hair, green eyes and a kind smile, "I think our time's come, Niall. I used to wonder why we'd been recruited to come here when everyone made fun of what we did. No one saw this coming - or maybe Commander Taylor thought it might. I'm not sure."

She smiles back at the photo. They'd been so happy together - even though their world was in its death throes, they still found joy in it. Despite losing him barely a year into their new lives in the Cretaceous, he had loved being able to see the stars, and it had been worth it just to see that look of amazement on his face. To look upon a sky full of stars with wonder is not just the preserve of the children.

That she is nervous is an understatement in the extreme. Until a week ago, she and her team had gone almost entirely unregarded. Even the occupation had barely touched them, tucked away at their end of the Colony. The Phoenix Group weren't remotely interested in ancient technologies, and thus they had not even been granted the opportunity to assist in turfing them out.

Then Jim Shannon had destroyed their link to the future, and suddenly Terra Nova was on its own - possibly irrevocably. With supplies set to last, most had continued to ignore them; until a message had arrived on her plex, out of the blue, from Commander Taylor.

It had been a bizarre job interview; the Commander himself visiting her personally to conduct it, and with none of his immediate senior staff. What he was offering was simple - promotion for her to his senior team, increased prominence and resources for her projects and the creation of an entirely new department: Sustainable Industries. Yseult has always considered the Commander to be a rather remote figure - albeit a paternal one - and the discovery of his passion for the colony and its success has been something of a revelation. Compared to the highly qualified Elisabeth Shannon and Malcolm Wallace, she is little more than a collier and metalworker - but then there's an element of science in what she does, too, isn't there? Perhaps that's just as well, as she'll be reporting to Doctor Wallace, and the last thing she wants is to look an uneducated idiot in front of her new boss.

She's never met him before, and certainly couldn't place him in a crowd - though Mike and her miller, Graham, who have - seem to regard him as a bit of a pompous twerp. She likes that word: 'twerp'; it confuses the hell out of her American colleagues, not being used to some of her more 'British' terms of speech - which is not bad for a German.

Setting her finds into a backpack, she smiles at Niall again, squares her shoulders, and heads out to meet her new colleagues.

* * *

"Now that we have a cure for syncillic fever," Elisabeth reports, "the lack of herd immunity is no longer an issue - though I won't know for sure how well that immunity is developing until we've come through the winter. Most people who've come through since the eighth pilgrimage have been inoculated, but there have been some instances of infection in spite of being vaccinated, which suggests to me that not all batches of vaccine were the genuine article. Either way, we have a cure now."

"Sounds promising." Taylor nods, "Anything else we should know about?"

"Apart from Timothy Peate suffering the aftereffects of eating some toxic mushrooms yesterday thanks to a misidentification on his part, I have no emergencies in the infirmary - just scheduled procedures." She looks across at Malcolm, "Unless you get careless with that scorpion this afternoon."

"It's still in the labs?" Taylor asks.

Malcolm nods, "For the time being."

"Shannon?" Taylor invites Jim to make his report. For some reason, he always refers to Jim by his surname.

"We had a glitch with a surveillance camera on the perimeter overnight, but there's a repair team on it this morning. Other than that, we're secure. The Sixers' camp is still deserted, so they're all still up in the Badlands with the Phoenix Group soldiers - though what they're doing and, well, _how_ they're doing, is still open to speculation."

"Still?" Malcolm asks, "Do we have any idea what they're doing up there?"

Jim shakes his head, "It's a hell of a way from here - if we're going to send someone to find out, then it'll be a trek. They could be anywhere up there. If they're still there at all."

"I do _not_ want them anywhere near here." Taylor grunts, "You have a plan, I take it?"

"Send Guzman and a team out there to scope them out. It's been two years and we've heard nothing. Maybe they're all dead - maybe they're planning something. We won't know until we go and find out."

"Sounds wise. Give me a proposed manifest ASAP and we'll get them onto it." He turns to Malcolm, expectantly.

"First things first," Malcolm begins, "I just wanted to apologise - again - for my team. I thought, until recently, that I was managing a science department rather than an infants' school. I think I've managed to more-or-less bang it into their heads that our job now is to support the survival of the colony, not to win nobel prizes."

Taylor nods, approvingly.

"I've refocused our resources to develop the aeroponics nurseries, which will maximise the growth of seedlings for the agriculture teams, and I've got Rob Stanley looking after our experimental physic garden. Maddy Shannon is working on an antivenin for that species of scorpion that started invading last summer, and the biochemistry team are assessing the medicinal properties of a range of plants." He pauses.

"What?" Taylor prompts.

"Well, I don't know if anyone else has started thinking this - but, now that we have no contact with 2149, or 2151, or whatever it is back there by now, I'm beginning to wonder if we need to start thinking a bit more low-tech. A lot of my equipment is starting to show some significant wear and tear - and, while I can maintain everything for the foreseeable future, it seems sensible to look for some home-grown solutions before we find ourselves with nothing but useless junk." He sounds almost ashamed at the concept of being unable to repair something electronic.

"He's right, Commander." Elisabeth agrees, "At the moment, everything I do has an electronic safety-net. We learned a hard lesson when that meteorite hit - once we lose our access to the electronics, we have to go back to doing surgery the old fashioned way. Even I haven't done that in a long time. At the very least, we need to consider more basic practicalities." She plucks ruefully at a rather frayed sleeve.

Taylor nods, "That's something that's been on my mind for a long time: longer than you think. About a couple of years before you got here, Malcolm, we had a few nasty moments with things breaking down; and even though we had two pilgrimages a year back then, getting spare parts and replacements was still one hell of a performance. I decided then and there that we needed people who could manufacture basic materials in a more primitive setting - metals, cloth and the like - so I put in for some people who could do that sort of thing. I ended up with a bunch of experimental archaeologists. They came through on the seventh."

"Ah, yes. I remember." Malcolm muses, "I should've kept up with what they were doing. I never got around to it."

" _Experimental_ archaeologists?" Jim asks.

"People who try out ancient manufacturing techniques based on archaeological evidence - metalwork, pottery and cloth." Elisabeth supplies.

"I knew that; it just sounded weird - made it sound someone built them in a lab."

She smiles a facetiously sympathetic sort of smile at him for his lame joke, then turns back to Taylor, "Actually that sounds like rather a good idea, Commander. We've pushed scientific discovery ahead of everything else while we've been here - so to have something practical that we know we can rely on seems eminently sensible."

"I found them a large sector at the far end of the colony to work." Taylor resumes, "They've been there ever since. I get reports now and again - but we've ignored them for the most part. That's something that we can't do anymore, so I'm upgrading them."

"Upgrading?" Jim asks, not sure whether to be intrigued, bemused, or worried at a larger workload.

"You have a new department to manage, Malcolm." Taylor advises, enjoying the look of consternation on the Chief Science Officer's face, "Sustainable Industries. I'll make as many resources available to you as I can to support them, but they need to link up with your work so that we get their activities as effective and efficient as we can. One day, we're going to need what they do, so now seems like the best time to start working on that."

"Will there be a department head to liaise with?" Malcolm asks, his tone rather brittle. He hates to have surprises sprung on him like this.

"There will." Taylor smiles, entirely unsympathetically, "She'll be here in about five minutes."


	3. Spelt and Mugs and Socks and Coal

Chapter Three

 _Spelt and Mugs and Socks and Coal_

The knock on the door is tentative, but Taylor is quick to answer it, and ushers Yseult into the room to the intrigued stares of the other three people within.

Being almost permanently at the other end of the compound from the senior staff, the only truly familiar face to her is that of Jim Shannon, who drops by now and again on his security rounds. He clearly remembers her, she notes, as he nods a greeting with a cheerful smile. Elisabeth she also knows to some degree, having escorted injured colleagues to the infirmary from time to time - though she has managed to avoid sufficient damage to warrant care herself. Her face is friendly, though it's clear that she is having a spot of trouble placing Yseult's face.

The only face left is unfamiliar, so she knows by a process of elimination that she must be looking at Malcolm Wallace. His expression is guarded, but not unfriendly, and he indicates a spare seat to his left. Perhaps he's only just found out about the extra responsibility of her team, then.

Taylor returns to the head of the table, "Allow me to introduce Yseult Maxwell - our new head of Sustainable Industries," he points about the table at his staff, "Jim Shannon, Elisabeth Shannon and Malcolm Wallace." Each nods again as they are introduced.

"Izzlt?" Jim tries, rather awkwardly.

"Something like that," she smiles, "Most people call me Max."

"One syllable." Malcolm observes, brightly, "That's something you could manage, Jim."

"I have zero problems with syllables, Mal- _col_ -mus." Jim shoots right back, without rancour. From their expressions, Yseult realises that their spat is nothing more than a mild joke - a continuation of some largely forgotten enmity that is carried on more out of habit than any genuine ire.

"Forgive my colleagues," Elisabeth smiles, "sometimes they even behave like adults - if you give them enough time, and they think nobody's watching."

"That sounds rather like my team."

"Max here came in on the seventh," Taylor resumes, "We had some major technical breakdowns early on - and I realised that we were going to need to scale down our tech sooner or later when we couldn't get requests through except when Hope Plaza opened the portal. It was one hell of a fight to get a team through - I put the request in when the fourth pilgrimage arrived."

"I think it was difficult to pin us down, Commander." Yseult admits, "There aren't that many of us around anymore - I was one of the last students to receive a Masters in Archaeology before they started shutting the courses down to concentrate on Earth sciences. I never got the chance to obtain a doctorate. Most of my team don't have my qualifications - they just did what they did for their own education and interest."

"Where did you study?" Malcolm asks, always interested in such matters.

"The University of Cologne. Despite my accent, which I learned from my late husband, I'm actually German."

He nods, though he looks slightly embarrassed at her mention of widowhood, concerned that he has committed some sort of gaffe.

"Why don't you give us a rundown on what your team can do, Max?" Taylor asks, briskly.

"Of course, Commander." Yseult sets the backpack on the table, "I thought it would be easier if I brought a few items to demonstrate what we do."

"Show and tell." Jim grins, cheerfully, "I _love_ show and tell."

* * *

Elisabeth examines a swatch of buff coloured fabric with interest, "What fibre is this?"

"That's some basic linen - we've been trying hemp and cotton, as well as the flax that the swatch came from. We found some ancient strains which are giving good results. Geoff, my engineer, has been working on recreating a water-powered spinning jenny so that we can process the fibres more quickly. If that works, we might try a spinning mule to increase the overall size of production, particularly if we mechanise the ginning process. The cotton, in particular, looks very promising - we might be able to create some heavier grades to replicate wool - without sheep, that's not something that we're going to have a lot of, I'm afraid."

"I could put a team onto researching some synthetic fibres that could be mixed with these," Malcolm muses, "At least for heavier grades of fabrics - and waterproofs." He pauses, and taps at his plex, making a note to remind himself, "how are these being woven?"

"Mostly by hand at the moment," Yseult admits, "I haven't got the resources to put someone onto building a powered loom."

"You have now." Taylor interjects, "What's this?" he picks up a heavy, metallic lump.

"That's a bit of steel bloom, Commander. We got it out of our blast furnace a couple of days ago. Mike, my assistant, did some basic checks on it, and the carbon content is quite low. It's still a bit high in phosphorus - we're experimenting on blending ancient and modern techniques to recreate the Bessemer process."

"Which does what, exactly?"

"Converts iron into steel." Malcolm translates, eyeing the sample with interest, "Do you want me to run some tests on this? I can get you some more accurate results later today."

"That would be very helpful; we can't get accurate results by buffing the bloom - it's more a question of seeing what the sparks look like. We had some more success a few years ago, but we didn't take it any further because we didn't want to deforest our sector, and we only had a limited supply of iron sand to work with; we managed to get some good samples of _tamahagane,_ though."

"Some what?" Jim asks.

"Very high quality steel that's traditionally forged in Japan. It used to be used for swords and knives - but the last craftsmen who made it died about seventy years ago. It's not made anymore, so I had to do some research to recreate it." She points up at the wall behind Taylor's head, "That's one of the blades I got from it. When I'm not making steel, I work it."

Heads turn and look up at the short, straight-bladed sword that is mounted there, "I presented the Commander with that a year after my husband died - to say thank you for the efforts that were put into trying to save him. I made two, but you have the best one, Commander Taylor."

"I do?" He seems surprised.

"I also made a parang, one of your botanists bought it from me about two years ago, Doctor Wallace."

"Rob? Yes, I remember him showing it to me - very impressive." He pauses, "Call me Malcolm. Everyone does."

"And what about aluminum?" Taylor asks, suddenly, "Most of our structures are built from it."

"We can't smelt bauxite cleanly, I'm afraid." Yseult admits, "Aluminium is phenomenally useful, but the process to get it is pretty polluting. Our best bet is to recycle and re-cast parts - which I think you're already doing. We could combine the foundries if we're going to start making steel on a larger scale - though that would take a lot of charcoal. One thing the Cretaceous doesn't have in extensive supply is coal - it's still being formed; so it's charcoal or nothing. The first thing we did when we set up was to start coppicing the primitive oaks in our sector so that we wouldn't deforest the entire place once we started making steel. We're just getting to the point now where the system will start to work properly."

Taylor looks to Malcolm for an explanation; and gets only an uncomprehending shrug in return, "Some form of woodland management?" He hazards, and looks relieved when Yseult nods.

Jim, who has been rather left behind in all the technical discussion, reaches for another of the samples, a rather nicely thrown earthenware mug with a shiny, brown glaze, "What about these?"

"We have a few potters around the Colony," Taylor admits, "but we needed a place to fire the pots - and these guys are the ones who do it."

"We've also built a watermill as a backup for grinding spelt flour." Yseult adds, "Since it hasn't been possible to persuade any modern strains of wheat to grow here, the ancient versions have proved to be very good alternatives. It's still a bit difficult to grind it finely enough to create cake flour, so I'm afraid cupcakes are off the menu for the foreseeable future; but the breads are proving very popular."

"They certainly are with my lot." Elisabeth smiles, "How fine a fabric could you create? I'm thinking of the possibility of manufacturing fine gauze for medical use."

"That's something we can work on - it's all still very much at the earliest stages - once we have the spinning jenny working, we can start experimenting with grades of fibres. If we can increase iron or steel production to build something akin to a Lancashire loom, then I could have a working cotton mill up and running in a few years - give or take."

"I could ask Rob to investigate domesticating the cotton if you're still picking it wild." Malcolm muses, reaching for the swatch.

"We are, at the moment; again, it's something we just haven't had the time or resources to do." Yseult admits, "It was quite a hunt to find that cotton plant - so we've found somewhere to grow it inside the compound in the hope that it doesn't turn out to be like a marauding triffid and take over the entire woodland. Other than that, we've largely left it alone."

"So it's a new thing, then?" Jim asks. Something in his expression suggests to Yseult that there's another dig coming as she nods, "Hey, Malcolm - why not name it after yourself?"

Malcolm utters a faint groan, "Okay - so I was being a prat when I named that bloody pterosaur after myself. I only did it the once."

"And I'm never going to let you forget it." Jim beams.

"The tradition is to name it after the person who found it. Which wasn't me - so how about _Gossypium Maxwellii_?" Malcolm counters.

"Are you talking dirty, Malcolmus?"

"Children - behave." Elisabeth interjects, "This is a senior staff meeting; not playtime." She sighs, and looks across at Yseult, "They're not normally like this - well, not in public."

* * *

Dumping her backpack on her kitchen table, Yseult makes herself a cup of mint tea and sits down to think over how her meeting has gone.

The enthusiasm for her projects has come as something of a surprise to her; after so many years of being utterly ignored by everyone in the colony, suddenly her team has recognition, resources and a place of importance for the future welfare of the population. They've known it for as long as they've been there - sooner or later the need to look to the past for technology would raise its head. And now it has.

Her plex pings as a message arrives. Setting her tea down, she finds a diary invitation from Malcolm to meet with him in the Labs in three days' time, along with an apology that it can't be sooner - but he has several projects running at once, and it's the first free space he's found.

Accepting the invitation, she sits back and considers her new boss. Indefatigably British, tidily dressed despite the general state of wear and tear of people's clothing these days. And, if she's honest with herself, she finds him rather attractive.

 _Don't even go there_.

Shoving the rogue thought aside, she looks through a list of topics that he has attached to the invitation - an analysis of her bloom sample, a small-scale project to investigate the development of synthetic fibres to mix with the natural ones; even a discussion with Rob Stanley about creating a domesticated strain of the cotton plant that Malcolm has, rather abruptly, chosen to name after her. Best not to mention _that_ to the team: they'd never let her live it down.

Sipping at her tea, she starts to note down items that would be useful to take with her: The piece of bloom, obviously; some samples of hemp yarns… _did he have blue eyes or grey?_

She gulps at the hot liquid, and nearly chokes as it scalds the roof of her mouth a little. Swallowing the mouthful, she resumes her list; some cotton bolls that haven't been ginned yet… _is he seeing anyone?_

Cross with herself, Yseult dumps the mug back down on the table so sharply that the contents slop over. What the hell is she thinking? The man is her _boss_ , for heaven's sake! Abandoning her plex, and the tea, she instead grabs a coat and cycles back to her colleagues at the far end of the colony. She doesn't even realise that, for the first time in five years, she hasn't said a quick goodbye to Niall's picture on the way out.

"How'd it go, Max?" Mike calls across from the large, bulbous lump of bloom that he has retrieved from the furnace while she was away.

"Well, I think." Yseult says as she props the bike up against the side of a workshed, "The Commander's going to set some more resources aside - we could well be able to start developing a basic power loom. I've been offered some help in domesticating that wild cotton, and we have access to equipment in the Research Labs to analyse our results from the furnace. Everyone seems pretty enthusiastic about us."

"For a change." Mike snorts, going back to his heap of bloom, "Took them long enough."

"I've got a meeting with Malcolm Wallace on Commemoration day - before the ceremony."

"Lucky you."

"He seems nice enough - quite eager to help, in fact." She comes over to view the bloom.

"He's a jerk. You know he hangs upside down for an hour every morning to get his hair to stand up like that? Like a fruit bat."

Yseult laughs, and slaps him playfully on the arm, "Whether he does or he doesn't, he's our boss now. You're going to have to learn to at least tolerate him."

"You're _my_ boss. I'll let you do that for me." He looks at her, "You joining us at Boylan's tonight? That Shannon kid's persuaded Sozume to give a _koto_ recital."

"That sounds well worth the effort of not being tired. Count me in."


	4. Commemoration

Chapter Four

 _Commemoration_

The sun is just coming up - another affair of fiery pinks and ambers that heralds a glorious day to come. Well, glorious for some, perhaps.

Seated beside the headstone, Taylor sighs to himself and looks down at the clumsy bundle of wildflowers that is the best he can manage in terms of a bouquet. He wouldn't consider getting anyone else to make it - and he knows she would appreciate the effort.

"I hate this." He says, aloud, "I hate that you died. I hate that I wasn't here to stop it. You were so brave - and you didn't deserve what he did to you."

There's no reply. There never is.

"I finally did it, Wash; it needed doing, but I got those people we brought in on the Seventh into the team. I guess I always thought that relying on them would make us a failure - but now that we're cut off from those bastards in the future; maybe it doesn't."

He sits in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of various creatures out in the forests nearby while the wind caresses the leaves and sets them to whispering. If he sits there long enough, sometimes he can almost imagine that the whispering is her voice.

As he did last year, he has spent much of the last few days away from the rest of the Colony; either holed up in his house or out here in Memorial Field. Other people visit the graves of their lost loved ones, too - so he prefers to come in the first light of dawn to avoid them. Seclusion demands privacy, after all. It's one way of concealing the regularity with which he visits her.

"Not much else to report since last month." He sighs, "Jim wants me to send a team out to find where the stranded soldiers have gone. We've been lucky so far - they've never come back. I hope they're all dead - that would make my life a hell of a lot easier." He doesn't add _and it would serve them all right_ , but the tone of his voice does. There'll be a lot of people hurting in the Colony today: he's not the only one. If the people who brought them their suffering have suffered in their turn, then, in his mind, it shall be justice.

"Don't be angry with me for thinking that, Wash." He sighs as he rises to his feet to depart, "I'm not built to forgive."

* * *

 _This was where it happened_. Josh looks around the bar that is now his responsibility; this was where Lucas was bothering Skye…where he intervened…where Lucas 'made an example' of him.

Most of the time, he doesn't think about it - the moment that Kara died, only minutes after taking her first steps into a new world. The discovery that his father was tortured after Lucas released him from the brig…all of it. This is the only day that he allows himself to remember how close they came to losing everything - and the price they all had to pay to save it.

He looks up from the glass that he has been mindlessly polishing over and over for nearly ten minutes. She's there, sitting quietly and watching him.

"I know." Skye says, simply, "I feel it too."

Finally, he sets the glass down, "I wonder if it'll ever go away." He admits.

"Maybe not - but we all have each other, and it was worth fighting for. I suppose that's why we still remember - so that their sacrifice wasn't in vain." She reaches out to take his hand, "At least _they_ can't reach us anymore. Somehow, I can't help feeling that all the dangers this place can throw at us are nothing compared to them. Now that we're cut off, I feel safe for the first time since I got here."

"And we still have our families." He admits.

"We do."

"D'you think they'll come back?" he asks, suddenly.

"They're leaving it a bit late if they want to." Skye muses, "Two years without hearing anything? We don't even know where they are. They can't have much left now - so if they want to strike at us again, we're better prepared than they are, and we've got more supplies. Maybe they found another time fracture and got the hell out and now they're some other reality's problem."

"So long as they're not ours."

* * *

Zoe is playing a game on her plex, giggling as she does so. Watching her, Elisabeth smiles; at least the commemoration isn't hanging over _her_ head. She processed it, put it aside, and decided that life goes on - all tidily considered and thought through in the terms of reference available to a child of five.

In the two years that have followed, they've worked hard to ensure that she doesn't dwell on the occupation; but, as she had her family about her, and she knew that they were safe, she seemed quite content to accept everything that was thrown at them once they were safely out of the compound. She even found it in herself to go and comfort the Commander after Alicia was murdered.

Elisabeth shudders inside at the word _murdered_. Even now, it still seems strange to her that they lost Alicia; she seemed so indestructible, so powerful. And yet, when it came down to it, her courage was quiet and simple - and she gave her life so that they could live. People she had barely yet got to know.

Like most people in the Colony, Elisabeth puts aside those thoughts that come to the surface at this time of the year. If they didn't, then how could they function? Most of the time, she's far too busy to think about how close she came to losing Jim; what if he had been captured, and ended up being destroyed with Hope Plaza by the pyrosonic device? What if the Carnotaurus had woken prematurely? He hadn't even hesitated - to save his beloved family, he would have willingly gone to his death if that had been required of him.

And then he is there, behind her; his arms encircling her, "Penny for 'em."

"They're not worth that much." She says, quietly, "Not when we won. I just wish it had cost less than it did."

They stand together for a while, watching Zoe as she plays. Absorbed in her game, she is unaware of their scrutiny. Does she still think about it? Perhaps she does - but, like many children, she has put the bad experiences away and accepted them. After all, the good side won, and the bad side lost. Children seem to be able to accept the most awful adversity if there's justice at the end of it.

Thank God they got it.

"Is Maddy prepped for later?" Jim asks, after a while. She will be reading the first of two poems at the ceremony; one that speaks of how those that are loved are not truly gone. As the other is a Shakespearean sonnet, Taylor has persuaded Malcolm to read it, as he thinks it will sound better spoken with a British accent.

"I think so. Mark will be nearby, so I think it's less likely to affect her emotionally than it would if she couldn't see him. If he hadn't made it, then I wouldn't have agreed to her doing it."

"And how are you doing?" his grip tightens a little about her midriff.

"Okay." She answers, truthfully, "We were lucky - we all made it. Not everyone can say that."

"That's what the ceremony's for."

* * *

Malcolm is sitting at a workbench, attempting to concentrate upon the agenda he's put together for his meeting with Yseult. She's due to arrive in a few minutes, though he is almost wishing he had postponed their meeting.

Not that he wants to avoid her - far from it…but last night. That dream again.

He had never imagined, when he defiantly refused to help Weaver and Lucas Taylor, that his act would have the consequences that it did. Steve McCormick had been just twenty two - bright, capable and showing real promise as a chemist. The worst of it was the casual nature of Weaver's indication to one of his men to grab the young man and bash his head through that window. He wonders sometimes if, had the glass not slashed into Steve's neck, he might have lived. But it did - and he did not. To see him there - the blood pumping out of him…taking his life with it…

And to know that, if he refused again, then someone else would join his dead assistant, that bloody puddle becoming a lake…

Malcolm chews at his lower lip, and curses as he bites down rather too hard, tasting blood. He usually forces himself to shut out the whole sorry business - from the moment that the fighting began, to the moment that he finally escaped into the forest to join the other exiles. So much happened that he wishes only to forget. And can't.

"I'm sorry - am I interrupting?" He looks up, sharply at the woman's voice. He has lost track of time, and Yseult is standing in the doorway, her plex in her hand.

"Not at all - come over; please. Sorry, I've not made a space for you. Hang on…" hastily, he clears aside equipment and a half empty coffee mug. "I'm doing one of the readings later, and I'm a bit nervous. I'm not that good at standing in front of an audience if it's not about something scientific or technical." He lies.

Yseult nods, and smiles as she sits down on a chair hastily vacated by an abandoned coat, "I can come back later if you prefer?"

"It's fine - I'm stupidly busy later on, so now's the best time. It'll take my mind off Shakespeare for a bit." He draws up his chair alongside to sit down beside her.

"I've brought the last bit of that _tamahagane_ that I mentioned at the meeting," Yseult begins, "And some of yesterday's steel bloom so that we can do a comparative analysis. It's been a while since I last got the chance to do it properly."

He nods, and reaches for the smaller of the two lumps, examining it quite meticulously, "I'm not an expert on metallurgy - it's a field I've not really had the chance to investigate. The mass spectrometer is a bit busy for the next few days, I'm afraid, but I can free it up towards the end of the week if you want to come over again."

"That would be great." Yseult hopes that her enthusiasm is about her samples, not the prospect of being invited back. She hadn't been sitting as close to him in the meeting as she is now, and her confusion is not being helped by his proximity, "We have some scope for casting iron as well, so that we can build a power loom. Wood's not really strong enough for that, so we'd need to use iron."

"You seem to have a lot of plans." He turns to her, intrigued.

"That's what the Commander hired us for." She quips. They're blue. His eyes are blue… _stop it…_

"I'll put you in touch with Rob later," He resumes, "He's one of our best botanists, so he can advise you on how best to domesticate that wild cotton that you've found."

" _Gossypium Maxwellii_?" she asks, and he has the grace to look a touch embarrassed.

"Sorry I did that to you - I was a bit of an idiot a few years ago and named a new species of pterosaur after myself. Jim's quite intent on never letting me live it down - so it was something I came up with at short notice to get myself out of a tight spot."

"I rather like it. I've never had a taxonomic name based on me before." She burrows into her bag and retrieves two of the bolls, "This is the raw cotton in its natural state. It's surprisingly good for such an early stage in the evolutionary process. It gins really well…"

"Gins?" Malcolm asks.

"Sorry - ginning's a process where you separate the cotton fibres from the seeds and debris. We have a mechanical ginning machine that's run by hand crank; but it's something else that we'll probably mechanise with water power once we have a loom going."

"I can see that I'm going to have a lot to learn with all of this." Malcolm admits, "I'm not used to historical technology."

"It's a bit weird, to be honest; we've had to re-learn a lot of it as we go - so in some ways it's a new frontier all over again."

He reaches for one of the bolls and examines it as carefully as he did the steel blooms. As he does so, Yseult watches him surreptitiously; not wanting him to notice her rather nervous scrutiny. She hasn't paid this much attention to a man in five years - not since Niall was alive and occupied her so thoroughly. Again she catches herself wondering if he's seeing anyone, and presses the heel of her left boot into her right foot. _Get back to the present, woman…_

She emerges from her furious internal battle to notice that Malcolm has gone quiet, and is looking off towards the far end of the laboratory. His face is in profile, and she can't quite read his expression - but, as far as she can see, he looks sad. Then she remembers: everyone knows that he was holed up in this place to work on that broken terminus device, though some thought he had done so willingly, or out of cowardice, until the truth emerged and everyone learned that he had done so to prevent any more people being murdered in front of him. It must've happened in here - is he looking at the spot where his assistant died?

"Malcolm?" she ventures - the first time she has ever spoken his name out loud to his face.

The word rouses him from his reverie, and he turns to her. They have never actually fully looked one another in the face - not yet: it is, after all, only their second meeting, but as their eyes meet, they seem almost to lock - and in that moment, to Yseult, there is not another person in the world. She hasn't felt that since Niall…

A door opens loudly nearby, "Oh, sorry Malcolm, I didn't realise you were in a meeting."

They seem almost to leap apart, startled as much by the reason for their stillness as the disturbance of it. Slightly flustered, his eyes a little wide, Malcolm turns to see the robust frame of Robert Stanley in the doorway, "No, it's fine, Rob - I wanted to introduce you to Yseult so you could talk over domesticating that wild cotton her team have found. No time like the present."

The words tumble out in a rather nervous torrent and he hopes fervently that neither of them notice.

* * *

Apprehensive, Maddy mounts the stairs to the Command Centre, and stops a few steps up, then turns to face the gathered throng. Everyone is present, except for those whose essential work cannot be set aside. The sea of faces looking at her is quite unsettling, until her searching eyes find the face that matters the most, and she feels that safe anchorage that, to her, is Mark Reynolds.

"They are not dead, who leave us this great heritage of remembered joy.

They still live in our hearts, in the happiness we knew, in the dreams we shared.

They still breathe in the lingering fragrance windblown from their favourite flowers.

They still smile in the moonlight's silver and laugh in the sunlight's sparkling gold.

They still speak in the echoes of words we've heard them say again and again.

They still move in the rhythm of waving grasses, in the dance of the tossing branches.

They are not dead; their memory is warm in our hearts, comfort in our sorrow.

They are not apart from us, but a part of us - for love is eternal, and those we love shall be with us throughout all eternity."

There is no applause as she descends, but she didn't expect any - after all, this is hardly a performance. She is, however, relieved that she remembered it all. It seemed entirely wrong to read it from a piece of paper. As she rejoins Mark, Commander Taylor smiles at her briefly, before he mounts the steps in his turn.

"Thank you all for coming." He begins, "I still remember what I said to you all when we gathered together after we re-took the colony from those who wanted to destroy all that we'd built, and I stand by it even today. When we closed the door on 2149, we opened a new one - a new chapter for our new world. We had to pull together to make it happen - and we did. _You_ did. Not a day goes by when I don't think how proud I am of every single one of you. We are a family. All of us together.

"Like all families, we have experienced loss - and very few of us here today came out of that time unscathed. In some ways, none of us did - what affects one, affects us all. But families pull together, and they survive. Our dead will never be forgotten - and we must strive to make sure that their sacrifice was not in vain. You're good people. All of you - and together, that's what will keep this Colony, and our dreams, alive."

He steps down, and nods to Malcolm, who - rather reluctantly - steps up to take his place. For one so normally full of himself, he seems rather forlorn, until he straightens up, and begins to speak.

"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,

And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.

Then can I grieve at grievances forgone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restored and sorrows end."

As he returns to his place in the crowd, Malcolm wonders how many people understood the archaic words; judging by the damp eyes of many about him, however, it looks quite likely that a lot of them did. For a moment, the words strike at him, and he remembers Steve's death again. For some reason, however, his response is to look about for someone - someone that, until barely two hours ago, he wouldn't have noticed at all.

There she is - standing with a few people who must be members of her team. Loath though he is to admit it, as he resolutely refuses to believe in such things, he is really taken with her; and it seems to have come from that single moment when he locked eyes with her in the labs. Love at first sight? Oh please…

Taylor mounts the steps again, "I'd like to thank our readers today, Maddy Shannon and Malcolm Wallace. Before we hold the silence, however, there is one more thing." He looks back down towards Jim and Elisabeth, where their youngest is standing, "Zoe - could you, please?" he invites.

Solemnly, she steps forth and approaches a cloth covered item, about a metre in height, alongside the steps and surrounded by new flowerbeds. Having appeared overnight, most have guessed what it is likely to be - though none have seen it.

"We've commemorated our lost - but as not all of them have graves, the school kids have created a memorial garden." He nods to Zoe, who carefully removes the cloth to reveal a small obelisk of granite, upon which the names of all who died in the occupation have been incised by an elderly stonemason who came through on the eighth pilgrimage. He thanks her as she returns to her parents.

The silence is, perhaps, the hardest of all - for there is nowhere to hide from grief. About him, Taylor can hear the occasional sob, sniffs, the sound of someone blowing their nose as quietly as they can. It takes all his fortitude not to join them, which he focuses by keeping a close eye upon his watch to gauge the passage of the two minutes.

"Thank you all." He says, to close it, "Before we depart, I'd like to end on a more positive note - and, while we commemorate loss, we balance it with the gain of someone new." He nods forward a proud couple with a newborn, "I'd like you all to welcome our latest colonist…" he pauses, though he is not sure whether this is for effect, or because he is psyching himself up to say _her_ name, "Alicia Hope."

This time, there _is_ applause.


	5. OTG

**Author's Note:** Me again - just to say a huge thank you to everyone who's reading along, and for favouriting/following. I hope you're enjoying - comments welcome!

* * *

Chapter Five

 _OTG_

In the week since the commemoration, Taylor has largely reemerged from the seclusion into which he settles, and Jim is relieved to find him standing at the window in the Command Centre, looking out over the market. No one admits to it, but, equally, everyone knows that he does so out of a whole multitude of regrets over Alicia Washington. The only difference from last year is that it's taken him less time to come out of it.

"You have the list for me, Shannon?" he asks, all business.

"Guzman, Reilly, Dunham and Reynolds." Jim advises, "They're the best we've got - if anyone can get there, find something, and get back; they can."

"Your daughter'll love you for that."

Jim sighs, "I know - but he's too damn good to leave here just because he's Maddy's boyfriend. I can't wrap him up in a blanket and keep him out of danger so that she'll be happy. That's not what he signed on for, and he'd know why he's not going."

Taylor looks out of the window again, "Part of the risk of being a soldier." He admits, "And caring about one."

Jim nods, as Taylor turns back to him, "Bring them up for a briefing at fifteen hundred hours. I want them on their way at first light tomorrow. We've lost track of that damned bunch of soldiers, so it's not going to be easy to track 'em down. The Badlands are as big as they're brutal."

"And if they find them?"

"Then they come back and report - and we decide what to do based on that report. As long as those Phoenix soldiers are away from here, I don't care what they're doing. Malcolm wrecked that terminus good and hard, and there's no one in that group who can repair it. Even if they could, there's no way to get back to Hope Plaza. Given what you would've done to the place with that pyrosonic device, there'd be no way to repair their end to the point that anyone could get back - even after two years. If they've wasted all their resources trying, then they might not even still be alive."

"Isn't that a bit mercenary?" Jim asks.

"Maybe - but it makes our lives a hell of a lot easier if they're all dead." He shrugs, "But until we know, we can't be ready. It's time we did."

* * *

"Take your time out there." Taylor advises Guzman as they finish prepping the rhino, "You have six weeks to find 'em, track 'em and get back to report. If you can't find anything, then report that. We need to know where they are now, what they're doing and whether they're going to come back and hit us - or we need to know that they're not a threat."

Guzman nods, "They looked pretty secure last time we saw them."

"That was eighteen months ago - and then we lost track when they went too far out. If that still holds true, then that's what you report back."

"Believe me, Commander, we'll tell you what you need to know, not what we think you'll want to hear."

* * *

A few feet away, Maddy is standing very close to Mark, but at least she's got to an age now where she doesn't sulk over her father's decision to include him in the team. She might resent it, but she doesn't show it.

"Just be careful, okay?" she says, for the tenth time.

"We all will." Mark smiles at her, "We've all got people to come back to."

"I know – just…"

He quickly tilts her chin up with his hand and silences her renewed stream of instructions for his welfare with a kiss.

"Enough with the love-in, already," Reilly calls good-naturedly from the cab of the rhino, "We gotta ship out."

"Take care out there." Taylor adds, as Guzman joins Reilly in the cab, while Reynolds joins Dunham in the back with their supplies, "I need you to come back alive to report to me."

"We'll find 'em, Commander." Guzman assures, as Reilly fires up the engine, "If they're still there to be found."

"I wish." Taylor mutters, mostly to himself, as the gate is raised, and the rhino speeds out.

* * *

The scorpion skitters forward and bashes into the glass of the vivarium with astonishing force for something so small. Donning the gauntlets that protect him from the creature's deadly venom, Malcolm glares at it, "I know, I know. I don't enjoy it either. If you and yours weren't such feisty little sods, then we wouldn't be having to do this."

Watching from the other side of the door, Maddy shudders. Having tried other methods of extracting the venom, all of which had some drawback or other, having to do it the old fashioned way - extracting with a small syringe - has turned out to be the only means of ensuring sufficient samples to work with. It's not as though the creature is particularly intelligent - but it seems to have sufficient brain to be able to tell when Malcolm approaches its prison with a meal, or to grab it and stick a needle in its venom sac. Given how long he's been doing it, she supposes that the creature has merely learned the differences. That said, it's not clever enough to move away from the spot where he dangles in the forceps; instead it pushes against the glass closest to where he is standing, its nasty pedipalps snapping open and shut as its tail curls over it in preparation to strike - into just the right spot for him to grasp it from the small opening above. Given how much it fights once he has it, she knows that it doesn't do so in the spirit of cooperation.

"What would you do if it learned how to jump?" Maddy asks, as Malcolm emerges, having transferred the sample into a small glass ampoule.

"Most species of scorpion can't jump at all, Maddy." He advises, handing her the ampoule, "A few can, but I've never seen this one do it. Things would only get problematic if the front of the vivarium drops - but that catch is locked, and I'm the only one with the code to open it. It's the slot at the top or nothing."

"It really hates you." She says, looking back at the room, where the creature is still facing them.

"I don't blame it. How would you feel if someone kept coming in, grabbing you and sticking a needle in you?" He sighs, "I'll be as glad as anyone else to get it out of here. Mind you, I think I'll take it out to one of the outposts and release it there. I don't fancy having it come back to the compound in search of me."

Maddy laughs, "I don't think it's that intelligent. It's so busy trying to attack you that it hasn't worked out that it's putting itself right where it needs to for you to grab it."

"That's what I'm hoping." He reaches for his plex to send a message through to Elisabeth that he's finished messing with the scorpion, "How useful are those papers?"

"There are some ideas we can try, though I'm wondering if there's anything in that venom that we can combat. It all seems incredibly resistant to anything that might break it down. We might have to make do with something that just slows it down."

"Even that's better than nothing at the moment." He pauses and looks at her again, "How are you doing?"

Maddy reddens a little; she'd been hoping he hadn't noticed, "Okay at the moment. They've only been gone a couple of days."

"Guzman's very good at what he does. He'll keep them safe."

"Mark proposed to me before he went." Maddy adds.

Malcolm almost drops the plex, "He proposed? Do your parents know?"

She nods, "He asked Dad before he asked me."

Ever the gentleman, then. No wonder she's distracted. In an instant, however, Malcolm is rather lost for words, "I…er…I'll leave you to it then." He beats a rather hasty retreat.

* * *

Yseult stands outside the labs, fumbling with the samples of steel and trying to summon the nerve to enter. She hasn't approached Malcolm since that moment when their eyes locked, and the potential awkwardness of going in there and finding that he was caught by surprise and is rather embarrassed about it is holding her very firmly outside the doors.

She couldn't take her eyes off him when he was standing on the steps and reciting the sonnet; even the sound of his voice is attractive to her, and her biggest fear now, other than his not reciprocating, is that Mike is right and he actually _is_ a jerk.

Her watch beeps the hour, and she realises that she can't dither any longer: he'll be expecting her. Squaring her shoulders, she reaches for the door.

His office is not exactly a closed space _per se_ : more a glass partition with doorways either side that have no means of being closed. In the midst of the piles of samples, dead insects in perspex cases, reports and even books that adorn every available flat surface is a large table upon which sits his workstation. He is bent over something, a set of magnifiers resting on his nose, and when he looks up, his eyes suddenly appear at least three times too large for his face.

"Max! God, I'm sorry - I got completely wrapped up in this. I forgot the time." He snatches off the magnifiers and hastily starts trying to clear a space amidst the chaos, "Please come and sit down; it's been a bit mad in here today, I had to get more venom out of the scorpion, so…" he stops, realising that he's rambling. This is not a good start; not if he's attempting to appear a calm, collected and capable human being, at least.

"Thanks," Yseult seats herself on a chair that, only a moment ago, was home to a pile of insect specimens. She can't help but wonder if she will have to make space for something every time she wishes to sit down in the labs, though the fact that he is flapping as much as he is is very endearing. She forces herself to concentrate, "We've left the samples intact - I didn't want to risk making things difficult for you in the analysis."

"That's fine. If you want to come through, we can get started. I've cleared the spectrometer for the rest of the afternoon so we can do as many tests as we need to."

As she had assumed he would merely take the samples and dismiss her, the words 'we' and 'rest of the afternoon' give her sharp thrill in the pit of her stomach. He wants her to stay. She certainly wants to, as well, though she has no idea if his assumed invitation is thanks to simple courtesy on his part, or whether he genuinely wants her to be here.

The equipment that he proposes to use is immediately unfamiliar. While Yseult made use of mass spectroscopy while she had the chance at University, the machines available to her were considerably older and outdated; all available funds for research being redirected to trying to salvage what they could of the Earth's climate. The setup here is far more sophisticated, albeit slightly battered from two years of use with no access to fresh parts, and she has no idea how the machinery works. Much as she would like to give Malcolm the impression that she knows what he's doing, she can't, and she has no intention of making a complete fool of herself by trying.

"What smelting technique did you use for the smaller sample?" Malcolm asks, as he prepares a small piece for testing.

"I tried to replicate the traditional Japanese method - there are some old videos that show the use of a _tatara_ furnace. The average temperatures were a bit difficult to monitor, because the whole thing was treated as a craft rather than a scientific process. Our best guess was that we were somewhere in the region of 1600 degrees or so. We used something akin to a backyard blast furnace for the bigger sample. There were some significant differences in the techniques, so it'll be interesting to see the carbon and phosphorus contents. Once we have a better idea, we can work on processing the steel to remove the rest of the impurities and…" she stops. Now _she's_ rambling. Hopefully, he hasn't noticed.

The testing takes a fair portion of the afternoon, and the results seem promising, at least for their newer sample, "I can't keep using the _tatara_ ," Yseult admits, "It just eats charcoal, and we can't keep up with it. Short of finding a stack of coal that we can coke, it's charcoal or nothing at the moment, so we've got to make sure that we manage the woodland properly, or we'll just end up deforesting the surrounding areas."

She is examining the results on Malcolm's plex, and he watches her, trying hard not to look as though he's doing so. She might lack his depth of academic expertise, but she's keen, knowledgeable of her field, and willing to improvise to a degree that he's never needed to. Improvisation is not in his nature, and the requirement to adapt to changing circumstances is something to which he is still becoming accustomed - whereas she and her team have been improvising from the moment they arrived. With things as they are, maybe that makes them the better prepared for the world in which they now find themselves.

"These look very promising." She says, pulling him from his reverie rather sharply, "Could you send them through to me? I can go over these with Mike this evening."

"This evening?" Malcolm asks. _God, is she working late, or is it a date with work attached? Is he her boyfriend, then? But she's a widow, isn't she? Damn and blast it…_

"We're all going over to Boylan's." She explains, "It's been a long week, so it'll be nice to have something to celebrate. It looks like we're going in the right direction with our furnaces."

"Right. Well, enjoy the discussion." He hopes she can't hear the relief in his voice that there might not be a man in the picture after all.

"Thanks." She hopes he can't hear her disappointment that the afternoon is over.

* * *

"Two coffees, one white, one black." Skye says, setting the drinks down, "I'll bring your food over when it's ready."

Accepting the proffered thanks, she smiles and returns to the bar, "How are we doing?"

Josh looks up from his paperwork, "Good enough for Boylan to be eating his words. That coffee roaster that the Sustainable team built for us has really helped to keep up with demand. I guess he never saw how well we'd do without anything stronger."

"How's he doing on that?" she sits beside him.

"Not as well as he was boasting he would. He's tried to make some apple cider - but I don't know what it is with the apples, they must be the wrong type or something."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea. He wants to go research it using the Eye - but Taylor won't let him: serious research only."

"And having no booze isn't serious?" Skye smiles.

"That depends if you're Boylan or not. Dad's enjoying not having to break up drunken fights."

"I'll bet." She looks up as a group approaches the bar, "Hey, Max. We don't see you down this end of the compound much."

Yseult smiles, "Not unless there's a good recital on. We just thought we'd have some coffee with our staff meeting. It's decided to rain stair rods out there, and there's only so much you can get done before the racket on an aluminium roof becomes too loud to shout over. Besides, Graham makes coffee that tastes like mud."

"Hey!" the offended party protests, good-naturedly, "that's Coffee _flavoured_ mud, thanks very much."

"Take a seat, I'll bring the coffees over."

"Thanks, Skye." She directs her group to a corner where they pull up chairs.

"How are our charcoal stocks?"

"Okay for the moment, Max," Pete, her woodsman, advises, "I've got a stack of that oak seasoned and ready to go when you do the next burn - though I'd definitely incorporate a retort if you want to get a better yield."

She nods, "I've nearly finished forming the pipes for that - I just need to cannibalise a few more bits of spare iron if there's any lurking."

"I'll find something." Mike promises, "What are you going to do with that bloom - more testing with International Face of Khaki?"

"Be nice, Mike." Yseult chides.

Josh sets a tray with the coffees and a jug of soya milk on their table, "Do any of you guys know how to make apple cider?" He ventures.

"I thought you just fermented apple juice." Graham, the coffee-flavoured mud maker offers, cheerfully.

"Tried that - got vinegar." Josh grins.

"What varieties are you using?" Pete asks, with a knowledgeable air.

"No idea," Josh admits, "Boylan managed to get a stack of apples and crushed them into juice."

"That's the trouble with you new-world folk." Pete grins, cheerfully, "You have no idea what goes into a proper cider."

"Which you do?" Mike snorts.

"Herefordshire born and bred, mate. Cut me and I'll bleed the stuff."

"Fair enough," Yseult laughs, "We can just bend you over a vat and cut your throat."

Pete turns back to Josh, "Give us a bit of time to finish up here, and I'll come over and have a chat. It's a bit more rarified than just smashing apples."

Josh grins, "Thanks. You'll be Tom Boylan's best friend."

"And that's meant to be a reward?"

* * *

Malcolm reviews Maddy's assessment of her latest results, and frowns slightly: The results are showing some promise, but she seems to have missed the strongest indications of that; listing instead another failure. She is definitely becoming more distracted; normally she would have latched onto that hint of possible success.

"Maddy." He approaches her, where she is looking at some samples, yet apparently not actually seeing them.

She looks up, "Hmm?"

He hands her the plex, "Why don't you have another look at your results? I think you might have missed something."

"I have?" She looks rather startled, but accepts the proffered plex and re-reads, "Oh…"

"The peptides?"

"Oh, God yes. Sorry Malcolm, I must've missed that. I'll re-do this."

He could, if he wanted to, embark upon a lecture about the need to be focused, to not permit distractions to get in the way of interpretation of results. Perhaps, if she were not an intern whose fiancé is currently on a dangerous mission far from home, he would. Instead, however, he sits down beside her, "Take the afternoon off, Maddy. It's never a good idea to be distracted in a laboratory."

"I'm really sorry…" she thinks he's punishing her.

"It's okay - I'm not telling you off, and I'm not kicking you out of the labs. You look tired; and an afternoon off seems the best thing at the moment - you've been working at this straight almost since you first got here. It doesn't do any harm to have a break from it, you know."

"I'm not sure it'll help." She admits.

"Because of Mark?" It's not really a question. They both know why she's so distracted.

"I'm sorry." She says again, very quietly.

"For being human?" Malcolm asks, "I'm perfectly serious. Have the afternoon off - go and annoy your brother for free coffees or something. The labs won't collapse because you're not here. That only happens if _I_ have any leave."

"You won't tell Mom, will you? She'll only worry."

"Fair enough - now get yourself out of here."

She smiles, altogether brighter, and departs. Shaking his head with a tolerant smile, he gets up, and nearly drops his plex when he sees Yseult standing in the doorway.

"That was nice of you." She smiles at him.

"Max - er, hi…how can I help you?" Malcolm stammers slightly, and reddens at how idiotic he must sound.

"I've brought some more bloom from yesterday's smelting." She says, "I just wanted to drop it off with you to run tests."

"Of course - do you want to come through? The spectrometer's free - we could do it now." He is quite convinced that she will hear a _double entendre_ in that, and hurriedly rephrases, "I mean, _test_ it now…"

Again, Yseult feels that startled thrill, "That would be great." His hasty correction has gone over her head, as her German sensibilities have never quite grasped that aspect of British humour, but she is more than happy to stay. It seems bonkers to be bonding over a mass spectrometer, but she'll grasp any opportunity to share his company that she can get.

An hour later, bent over the results, she can't help but be pleased; the quality of the bloom has improved, reducing the need for additional work quite considerably. As before, her only disappointment is that she has no excuse to stay for much longer, and she can't think of another reason either to hang around, or to come back another day. The only other project that requires cooperation with the science team at the moment is the domestication of the cotton - and that's Rob Stanley's job.

Beside her, Malcolm is watching her again; and trying his level best to hide it. He doesn't want her to go any more than she wants to leave - but he can no more think of a reason to keep her here than she can find one to stay. _Just ask her out, you idiot. What's the worst that can happen?_

Apart from refusal, embarrassment, awkwardness or humiliation, of course. It sounds so utterly mercenary - trying to date a widow. The words 'do you want go for a drink' hover at the back of his throat, but the ghostly presence of a dead husband keeps them there, and won't let them out.

"Do you have any spare iron lurking around here?" she asks, suddenly, catching him entirely by surprise.

"Iron?" he asks, rather dumbly.

"Sorry - yes, I'm forging a retort to use in our next charcoal burn; but I'm a bit short of raw materials, so I'm scavenging."

"Er…" he delves into his memory for some suggestion that might be of use, "I'm not sure that I have." _Why didn't you suggest she come with you to have a look? You utter moron!_

"Ah, well." She smiles, "I thought I'd check." Then she pauses, "Actually, would you be willing to test some of our seasoned wood and charcoal? It's a horribly wasteful process, and we're trying very hard to increase our yields. I'd also like to see if we can get something close to Japanese white charcoal without having to steam the wood."

"I'm sorry - _steam_ the wood?" Malcolm asks, bemused.

"Yes - to remove the pyroligneous acid. If I can find a variety of tree that's not got a lot of it in the first place, that might help."

"I take it there's a reason to remove it?"

She nods, "White charcoal is famous - it produces no smoke or smell when it burns, and it's porous, so it does a great job filtering water and absorbing impurities. If we can get it right, it could replace the filters in people's air ducts."

"You think of everything."

"I try."

"In that case," he offers, "Bring some samples over and we can get testing."

"I'll do that." She smiles, and departs - radiantly unaware that her sense of jubilation at finding a reason come back is as great as his.

* * *

Taylor stands on the balcony overlooking the marketplace and watches, but doesn't see much. His team has been gone three weeks now - and he has no idea where they are, what they're doing, whether they've found anything or even if they're still alive. While radio silence was his tight stipulation, for their protection, his concern for their welfare, and his natural protectiveness, is screaming at him for being such a fool as to cut off any means of keeping tabs on Guzman's progress. That said, if they _had_ encountered problems, he has no doubt that they would have called for help. Guzman is not one of those idiotic not-ask-for-help-because-it-looks-weak types.

He is surprised to see Elisabeth coming up the steps to join him, but makes room for her beside him at the balustrade.

"Any news?" she asks, more in hope than expectation.

"Nothing yet, Elisabeth." He advises her, "I ordered them to maintain radio silence while they were out there - unless they were facing a life threatening emergency and needed me to send the cavalry. I'm operating on the basis that no news is good news."

She nods, "Maddy's finding it very hard."

Taylor nods, sympathetically, "It's tough to love a soldier." _I should know_.

"Mark asked her to marry him before he left." She adds, quietly.

He turns to her, surprised, "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I'm not sure whether that was good or bad timing on his part. I suppose he wanted her to know that he was committed to her no matter what. She got very upset when she found out that he was part of this expedition."

"Who knows about this?"

"Jim, me, you and Malcolm."

"Malcolm?" Taylor looks surprised; he is, after all, hardly the closest friend of the family, despite the smoothed over ground between Elisabeth's ex-boyfriend and her husband.

"She told him - though I think it was more something she did without thinking rather than because he's her supervisor. Our past is entirely in 'water under the bridge' territory. Besides, haven't you noticed he's interested in Yseult?"

"He is?" Taylor may be highly watchful of the people over whom he presides - but some things go right under his radar, it seems.

"Very much so. It's quite sweet, actually. The pair of them are behaving like teenagers - he's too scared to ask her out, and she's too shy to push him into doing it. Or doing it herself, actually."

He rolls his eyes, a part of him wants to get down those stairs, find Malcolm and tell him to grow a pair and just get on with it. He made the same mistake with Wash, and look where _that_ got him.

"If I hear anything before they get back, I'll speak to you or your husband." He says, quietly, "Mainly because, if I do, it means things have gone south. We _want_ to hear nothing."

Elisabeth nods, "I'll bear that in mind."


	6. Distant Strife

Chapter Six

 _Distant Strife_

Jim sits quietly, an arm about the shoulders of his weeping daughter. Much as he wishes he could've kept Reynolds safely in the compound, he knows he couldn't. Maddy might be grateful, but Mark wouldn't be. To be wrapped in cotton wool and protected by his girlfriend's dad? He'd never live it down - nor would he thank anyone for it.

That, of course, is doing nothing for her nerves. That she's held it together for four weeks now is immaterial - there is no news of Guzman and his expedition, regardless of whether or not Taylor is keen on the 'no news is good news' focus. She has no idea where her fiancé is, and no idea if he's even going to come back alive from an environment where it's not just the enemy that might kill him. In most respects, she is a calm, collected young woman at the start of her adult life. At the moment, however, she's a little girl who needs her dad.

Eventually, the tears dry; no one can cry forever, after all, "I'm sorry, Dad."

"What for? Having feelings?" he asks, "I wish I could've kept him here for you - but we both know that wouldn't have worked."

Maddy nods, and blows her nose, "He's a soldier. It's what he does, right?"

"Right."

"No news is good news." She adds, firmly; as though trying to tell herself that as much as make a comment to her father.

"Exactly."

* * *

Sitting at his desk in the Research Lab, Malcolm reads through a set of results, and sighs inwardly. He's running out of things to test.

So far, he's run analyses on numerous samples of steel, iron, wood, charcoal, hemp fibres, ginned cotton, root samples, various clays and even bloody _apple_ juice. Anything he can think of to keep Yseult coming back to the labs so that he can spend time with her. He hasn't dared to venture to her end of the compound - the scornful stares of her colleagues when they see him are more than enough to keep him away. They consider him to be nothing more than some wimpy lab-rat who won't do anything to get his hands dirty. It would be far too humiliating.

It's not just how she looks: yes, she's pretty - though not exactly Helen of Troy - but she's interesting, knows things that he doesn't, listens with interest to the things he knows that she doesn't, and he feels an almost palpable sense of disappointment when she has to leave - or she's not coming in to see him.

But she's a widow. There was a man to whom she was married once, until his work party was ambushed by nykoraptors five years ago. From what he knows, they were very close - and a man like that casts a long, long shadow. He has no idea how to counter that. Besides, if he _did_ ask her out, where on earth would he take her? He wouldn't be seen dead in Boylan's bar, and there isn't really anywhere else to go. Inviting her to his home seems utterly out of the question - what if she thinks he's expecting her to stay the night?

What if she says 'no'?

* * *

Sitting at a table in the shed that serves as her 'office', Yseult reads through a set of results, and sighs inwardly. She's running out of things for Malcolm to test.

She's provided him with samples of steel bloom, straightforward iron, wood, charcoal, hemp fibres, cotton, roots, clays - and even various apples on Pete's behalf to help with what he is now calling 'Project Scrumpy'. Anything she can think of to get herself up to the labs and spend time with him. He seems not to want to come to her end of the compound, though she can understand why he finds her colleagues intimidating. They're taller, and stronger, than he is and he probably knows to some extent that they regard him with a degree of scorn; particularly the robustly muscular Pete and Mike.

It's not just how he looks - he is, to her mind, handsome: not ridiculously muscular, which she doesn't like much anyway, sandy hair that can shift from fair to almost fox-red depending on the light, blue eyes and a neat, compact mouth betwixt a carefully tended crop of facial hair. He listens to her with interest when she witters on about her projects, takes the time to explain the things he does that she doesn't understand, and she feels an almost palpable sense of disappointment when she has to go, or there's no reason to visit him.

Is it because of Niall? She can't deny how close they were; nor how much his loss devastated her after the nykos ambushed his work party. He had been horribly wounded; and, despite Commander Taylor's determined efforts to get him back to the compound alive, he hadn't made it. Regardless of the five years that have passed, and her gradual acceptance of his loss, she is still very much regarded as 'the widow'. Perhaps that, and the sword she made for Taylor to thank him for trying so hard, are too much of an obstacle for Malcolm to want to cross.

Why is she too shy to ask him out? She knows he never goes anywhere near Boylan's bar - someone once joked that, if he did, the world would end. She daren't ask him to come round to hers. What if he thinks she's expecting him to stay the night?

What if he says 'no'?

* * *

Josh fetches another batch of cups from the dishwasher and sets them aside. Nearby, Tom Boylan is going through the latest sets of results with Pete. Josh has no idea what 'Scrumpy' is, but it sounds rather cool, so he's not going to interfere in the naming of their joint project to create a decent alcoholic beverage from apples.

"That's your problem, I think, Tom." Pete says, "The sweet apples are being kept for eating - while yours are entirely bitter because they're no good for eating or cooking. You need to balance out the varieties more. Sweet alone would be too bland, but you have to add them so that they counter the acid and tannins in the sharps and the bitters."

"Somehow I don't think Taylor's going to allow me to raid the dessert apple stores." Boylan grouses, "Using a food source to make liquor isn't going to float his boat."

"We could go for a single variety cultivar." Pete muses, "The selection's pretty tiny - but if we can find one, it would solve the problem of finding a suitable blend. Most Cider apples are largely inedible because they're so fibrous - but that makes them easier to juice. Something like a Dabinett would be ideal."

"I'll take your word for it." Boylan drawls, not having a clue what Pete's talking about.

"I'll see if Max can grab some time with the Eye. She can track down some analyses. If we can find an apple that has a similar composition, then we've got ourselves onto the route to a single variety cider."

Boylan snorts with amusement, "Are she and Doctor Wallace still fart-arseing about?"

"In what context?" Pete asks, a little warily. Unlike his more 'macho' colleagues, he has also noticed how Yseult is behaving around Malcolm, and even that he is doing much the same with her. He was not, however, aware of the extent to which their continued failure to become 'an item' is a source of interest around the compound. Not until now.

"If it's any interest," the laconic Aussie adds, more confidentially, "I'm running a book on how long it'll take him to man up and grab her."

They turn at the sudden clatter of Josh dropping a saucer.

* * *

With the dawn of the sixth week, nerves are on edge across the Compound. Nothing stays a secret in Terra Nova for long - not these days, at least - and everyone knows why the expedition went out. That they've been gone almost the entire time allocated to them suggests that there is something out there that they must've found, and everyone is very keen to know what it might be.

None more so than Taylor, who fights with himself not to head up to the watchtowers beside the gate. They'll be back when they get back. Guzman knows what he's doing. _What if they were caught?_ He's damned good and looks after his soldiers, _what if they got trapped in the badlands and thirst got them?_ Reilly is the staunchest second in command he could hope for, _did something attack them on the way out, or while they were there?_ And as for Dunham and Reynolds - they've proved their worth over and over again, _what if they don't come back?_

He looks down to see Jim climbing the steps to join him, "Before you ask, Shannon, I got nothing."

"Then I won't ask." He comes up to stand alongside Taylor at the balustrade, "Maddy's on tenterhooks."

"I don't doubt it. It's tough to love a soldier."

"So you keep saying."

They stand in silence for a while. What else is there to say? The expedition will either return, or it won't. It's that simple. And that complicated.

"Vehicle approaching the gates!" a voice hollers from the nearer of the watchtowers.

"There's no-one else OTG. It's gotta be them." Taylor is already moving.

The pair race down the steps and cross to the gate, "Can you see who it is?" Jim bawls up at the guard.

There's a pause, someone is scoping it, but it's taking time, then finally, "It's them, Sir!"

Taylor needs no prompt, "Open the gates!"

* * *

Guzman is seated in the Command Centre, on the other side of a hot shower and a change of clothes. Other than looking tired, and a bit battered, he seems largely unscathed, unlike the rhino, which had a portion of the back bashed in, "We encountered a Carno on the way back in." He explains, as he reaches for the cup of coffee that has been provided for him, "We just kept on going - and we managed to get away from it before the power cell gave out and we needed to change it. That put us onto our last one."

"Just as well you were coming back." Jim observes.

There are no significant injuries beyond bumps and bruises thanks to the rough chase through the forest tracks with a whopper dinosaur on their tail. Dunham and Reilly have probably crashed out, while Reynolds, on the other hand, is being obliged to submit to the endless questioning of a rather over-relieved fiancée. Guzman is less fortunate, in that he has to make his report before he can hit the sack.

"We managed to track them down - and we got in pretty close." He begins, "They're way out - right out into the near-desert."

"Any guesses as to why they're so far out?" Taylor asks.

Guzman shakes his head, "They've set up an encampment of their own; them and the Sixers. They must've run through most of their supplies by now - they're relying on the Sixers for food, judging by the hunting parties that were going out. There are a few prey animals out there. They're using condensers and recyclers to keep their water supplies going. There's no fresh water for miles - just a few brackish pools that they don't bother with - they're too small. Our pump filters worked okay with those."

"Could you see what they were doing?"

"Staying alive, mostly. Whatever they were trying to do, I don't reckon it's worked - why would they still be there? I'm amazed they've stayed, Sir. Something's keeping them there - but we couldn't see what it was. It's like, they know they can't stay much longer, but they can't go, either. If they don't move soon, then they're all gonna die."

"It's that bad?" Jim asks, astonished.

"I'd say so. The Sixers've just about had enough of it. From what I could see, Mira's getting to the point where she's gonna abandon the place. They're the real reason that colony's not dead - but they get treated like hangers on. All they do now is go out hunting, and looking for water - and they get the dregs of what they bring back. If things keep going the way that they are, then we could have neighbours again - and the Phoenix soldiers'll all be dead. The Sixers could walk out if the vehicles are dead: they've built shelter stations - concealed and stockaded, with water on standby - so I'm amazed they're not gone given that the soldiers aren't going anywhere. We only came across one or two of them - they're brilliantly hidden - but there's bound to be more. It wouldn't surprise me if there's a run of them all the way back to the forest. And the Phoenix soldiers probably don't know they even exist. It's like they're just sitting and waiting to die out there."

"Sounds like one mass outbreak of stupid to me."

"I've seen it happen." Taylor muses, "Carrying out orders to the point where doing so becomes unviable, but still doing it, and finding you've left it too late to turn back. Whoever's in charge must have a plan that they're so keen to push that they've lost track of the bigger picture."

"We couldn't figure out what it was, Sir. I'm sorry." Guzman apologises.

"Don't apologise, Son." Taylor commiserates, "You've given us a lot more than we had when you went out. We know they're alive - that they're running out of options and that they're not moving. Chances are, they won't be a problem for much longer. Go on, hit the hay. You've earned it."

"Thank you, Sir." Stifling a yawn, Guzman rises from his seat, "I'll get a full report to you tomorrow." With a brisk salute, he departs.

* * *

Malcolm looks up from the report, "This was definitely all that he was able to see?"

"The whole shooting match." Taylor confirms.

"Well, given what we have, all I can really do is offer some speculative thoughts. There's no way to be certain - short of actually going into the camp, which I imagine was completely out of the question, there isn't much for me to go on."

"It _was_ out of the question."

"Given that we have that figurehead, and we know that it's come from _our_ past - the best conclusion we could come up with is that there is something particular about the badlands that attracts time fractures like the one between here and our world. I think that was the general consensus."

Taylor nods. This much, they all know.

"The only thing that I can think of that's keeping them there is a hunt for one that'll get them home again - which is, frankly, pointless given that there's nowhere in 2149 to anchor to. If they're not leaving, then something - or possibly some _one_ \- is making them stay. Whether that's because they have specific orders and their Commander is ensuring they stick to them, or said Commander has gone bats and is making them stay regardless of whether it's the right thing to do, is anyone's guess." He looks up, "Do we know if they still have the terminus?"

Jim shakes his head, "Guzman didn't mention it - so if they do have it, it wasn't somewhere he could see it."

"On that basis, I'd assume that they do. Not that it matters: it's completely buggered anyway, so it's not like they can use it. They'd need to come back here for parts and labour, and they're not having them." He frowns, "They can't anchor a fracture at either end - and they're still there? Their Commander _must've_ gone nuts. There's no point in them being there - they might as well give up and try and talk their way in here. Assuming you'd have them."

"That's debatable." Taylor growls.

"Sorry I can't be more helpful, Commander." Malcolm sighs, "Whatever they're doing, they've hidden it very well."

"It's a start, Malcolm." Taylor nods as his Science Officer departs.

"What do you reckon?" Jim asks, once they are alone.

"Much as I hate the Sixers, I'm praying that they'll come back. If the Phoenix exiles don't have them to rely on, then they won't be a problem for much longer. God alone knows why they're still where they are - maybe they think they _can_ find a way back to the future."

"Not without a working terminus, they can't." Jim looks across at Taylor, "D'you think they'd be desperate enough by now?"

"To do what?"

"To get that terminus working. Even if they can't anchor at the other end, they still need a starting point, don't they? Get that repaired, and they've got one. They've had all the time in the world up to now, so they've not needed to hurry - but if things are as bad as Guzman reckons, what about that old saying about desperate times?"

"You think they'd try to snatch Malcolm?"

"He's the only person on the planet who could fix that damned terminus. Wouldn't you?"

It's a very disconcerting thought. Suddenly, Malcolm Wallace has become a very valuable commodity indeed.


	7. A Day in the Life

Chapter Seven

 _A Day in the Life_

Zoe sits at the table and ponders. In her world, all is going very well: she has aced her spelling test, come top in the most recent math test, and her teacher is very pleased with the essay that she wrote on Abraham Lincoln. As the subject was 'A Great Leader', the teacher's primary relief was probably that Zoe was one of very few youngsters in her class who _didn't_ choose to profile Commander Taylor. Whatever her view, she was pleased not only with the topic, but also the construction. Zoe may not have a mind as scientific as her elder sister's, but this is merely because her talents lie elsewhere. If Terra Nova ever needs someone to keep a coherent, interesting record, Zoe is shaping up to be the one who could do it. Not bad for a seven-year-old.

Her current concern is not so much schoolwork as her next newspaper. While even she knows her success is largely owing to her father's position in the Colony's command structure, she has managed to obtain interviews with everyone on the senior team. Her biggest coup by far being the first school Editor to interview Commander Taylor himself. But then, his affection for her is very much like that of a favoured granddaughter, so perhaps that was inevitable. She has followed this up with an interview with her dad, her mom, and even Doctor Wallace has submitted to her scrutiny. Not being a parent, he proved to be utterly terrified of her, but managed to find some suitably gross specimens for her to write about; she pretends that she didn't notice him asking her dad for some help.

Until recently, she had run out of senior staff to interview - and was thinking of trying some of the folk in the marketplace; but then the Commander added a new person to his team, and she is now very keen to add this new person to her list. Like many in the main compound, she knows little about the activities that go on at the far end, where strange things are built, smoke rises and from whence people emerge rather covered in grime. Naturally, she is very keen to investigate, but the most immediate problem is persuading someone to take her there to do it.

Zoe can't pronounce 'Yseult', but as there isn't a single class that hasn't watched a flint being napped, or been shown how to make an arrowhead using the lost wax casting process, she is happy to call her latest target 'Max' like everyone else does. With her teacher's permission, she has issued a request, and received an enthusiastic response agreeing not only to an interview, but also to show her around the site where Max works - as long as a grownup comes with her. So far, however, everyone's been too busy to oblige.

"Josh," she calls across to her brother, who is helping himself to some leftovers for a late breakfast, "Can you take me over to see Max today?"

He looks up, mid chew.

"I need to interview her for the newspaper, but she says I can't come on my own."

Josh swallows his mouthful, "She's dead right, there."

"So, will you take me?" She can see his mouth shaping into the word 'no', " _Pleeeeeeese?_ " she wheedles, "I promise not to tell Mom that you've just had the last piece of apple pudding that she was saving specially for Maddy."

He looks down at the one small morsel that remains, and sighs the sigh of a man condemned, "Whatever you want, Zoe."

Yseult is working at her forge when the pair arrive, the sound of the hammer ringing violently out across the small compound that serves as their project area. Such is the racket that she doesn't notice them at first, her vision narrowed considerably by the goggles that protect her eyes from rogue sparks or flecks of slag. It's only when one of the men nearby looks up from the bellows that he's monitoring that he notices the arrivals and prods her on the arm.

"Hey there, Zoe," she calls across as she lifts the goggles, "I just need to finish this, it can't wait - could you give me five minutes? You can film me on your plex if you want. Just keep away from the scrap steel pile - there are a lot of sharp bits sticking out of it."

Nodding enthusiastically, Zoe retrieves the device and starts up the camera. Rolling his eyes behind his sister, Josh concentrates on making sure she doesn't get too close, trip over something or get in the way. The steel pile that Yseult has indicated looks singularly nasty, with sharply pointed shafts of metal sticking up at all angles.

Once finished, Yseult quenches the block of metal in a bucket of water and sets it aside, "Sorry about that, Zoe - I couldn't leave it and go back to it. I'm done now, though. Where would you like to start?"

"Can we talk about the people here?" Zoe asks, setting her plex to start recording.

"Of course we can." Yseult points across to Mike, "That's Mike - he's my assistant. He knows about metal, like me, and we both make things out of it."

"Like the arrowhead?"

"That's right. We make all sorts of things - but we're still learning how to do a lot of it, so we do lots of experiments; because we don't know what's going to work and what isn't. It's a lot of fun finding out."

Having assumed that he was going to be bored rigid, even Josh finds himself fascinated as he follows Zoe around the workshops. So much of his home is mechanised and automated these days that he has no concept of a life when such amenities didn't exist. To find that there is a group of people working to make sure that they can hang on to at least some of that life when the amenities start to break and stop working is quite comforting, in a way. There may no longer be any supplies coming in from the future, but there are people here in the present for whom such an eventuality doesn't matter all that much.

"When did you come to Terra Nova?" Zoe asks, eagerly.

"On the Seventh Pilgrimage. The Commander realised that he would need people like us very early on, and he asked for people when the Fourth came through - but we're a bit of a rare breed, so it took quite a few years to get us all together. We want to get to a point where we can mend the things that mend _other_ things, if you get what I mean. When plexes break at the moment, we have a stock of cores - but when that runs out, we don't have any way to make more - they need specific metals that we haven't got yet. If I can get things right here, then we might be able to make them."

" _Make_ metal?" Zoe asks, intrigued.

"Most metal doesn't come ready to use, Zoe." Josh points out, "It comes from rocks and stuff."

She nods, "How do you get it out?"

"With a lot of work," Yseult smiles, "and a lot of heat." She waves at someone, "Zoe, this is Pete. He looks after the forest for us. We use a lot of wood in our work, so we want to make sure we don't use it all up."

Pete comes over, nods cheerfully at Josh, and submits to some questioning by Zoe, "The wood'll be ready for the burn in the next couple of days if you want to start organising."

"Burn?" Zoe asks, immediately.

"You can't use just ordinary wood to make metals, Zoe." Yseult explains, "We have to do a special kind of burning to turn it into something called charcoal. I'm not sure if you've encountered it - it depends on whether your dad ever did barbecues."

She shakes her head.

"Tell you what," Pete says, "Why don't you cover our next charcoal burn? It's interesting at the start and at the end, so you can meet everyone, then go home while the boring thing happens and - even better - at the end it gets _incredibly_ dirty."

"Yes please!" Zoe is instantly enthusiastic at the prospect.

Josh, less so.

* * *

"It works like this," Yseult begins, picking up a chunk of primitive oak, "Wood by itself doesn't burn hot enough to smelt metals - it's full of impurities and other useless gunk that keeps the temperature down. You need to get rid of that, and the only way to do it is to burn it - but to burn it in a special way."

"Special?" Zoe asks.

"Exactly. What people used to do would be to stack the wood, and then cover it with earth. Then they'd light it and make sure it was completely covered so that the air couldn't get to it. That's where it gets boring - you have to watch it constantly. For five days."

"Five _days_?" Josh looks quite incredulous.

"Yep. The burn changes the density of wood inside the kiln as the impurities burn away, so the pile shrinks and the cover can crack. If that happens, air gets in, the whole lot goes up and it's goodbye eyebrows."

Zoe giggles at her joke, unaware that she is understating the danger of such a flashover quite considerably.

"It's not possible to stay awake that long, is it?" Josh asks.

"It isn't without doing serious damage to your health. That's why we all take part. What used to happen is that a collier would sit on a one-legged stool. If they fell asleep, then they'd fall over, which would wake them up again. We get round it by working shifts - we can't really afford to lose a charcoal burn." She smiles, "It tends to turn into a bit of a party, actually. Anything to stay awake."

"Is that how you'll do it?" Zoe asks, keenly.

"Not exactly - making charcoal is very wasteful, and it gives off poisonous fumes, so we're working on some other methods to get a better result and get the air a bit cleaner. We still use an earth covering because it's the easiest way to do it - but we're going to try building in a special pipe to keep the hot fumes in the pile. It's called a 'retort'. It's a bit difficult to explain here - but if you want to see us complete the build tomorrow, you can see us having a go at trying to fit it. We've never done it before, so you can report on whether it works or not."

Zoe nods, excitedly. Of all the interviews she's done, she hasn't had the chance to watch something entirely new being tried out. Something of a coup for a seven-year-old journalist.

"In that case, why don't you come by tomorrow afternoon after school, and then I'll let you know when to come back. I don't think your mum would be impressed with you staying here for the whole burn. And you wouldn't be either once you find out how boring it gets."

Another nod. Beside her, Josh sighs, "Okay, Zoe, I'll bring you."

Yseult laughs, "Come on, Zoe. Let me show you the blast furnace. That's _really_ boring."

* * *

Now that she's been back and forth to the labs so often, Yseult has become comfortable using the analytical apparatus herself, and no longer needs Malcolm's supervision. Not that she minds when he's present - but he's busy with a pile of reports, and regardless of how much she'd like to see him, she isn't keen to disrupt his administrative work.

Rather than commence tomorrow's burn and see what happens, she is instead keen to check exactly what she's got as a raw material, in the hope that she can get at least a basic idea of what will come out the other end. It would be such a shame to complete the burn and have a fail - particularly with little Zoe so excited at the opportunity to record the outcome.

She is transmitting the results of her investigations to her plex when one of the biochemists comes into the room. Yseult has no idea who the woman is, nor does she care particularly; she's finished her work and the machinery is now free for use by the 'legitimate' scientists. The rather snooty expression on the woman's face does little to endear her to the archaeologist, either.

"Will you be much longer?" The question, while polite on the surface, is so loaded that it might as well have been, _will you be hogging that machine and getting in the way of proper research_ _for much longer_ _?_

"Nope. I'm done. It's all yours."

"I take it you asked Doctor Wallace for permission to use this equipment?"

"I've got his standing permission. He doesn't mind." _Doctor Wallace? Seriously? Or is she trying to make out that I have no right to call him Malcolm?_

"And what, exactly, are you… _analysing_?" The question is, again, horribly loaded. As most of the science team regard her, and her team, as a bunch of unqualified people messing about with things of no importance, she is entirely used to such comments; they all are. Rather than rise to it, she takes it at face value; maintaining the moral high ground. It's a shame that the insults are coming from one of the female chemists; though she knows that the men are just as bad.

"I'm evaluating the levels of pyroligneous acid in the wood samples to anticipate the likely degree of yield from a charcoal burn."

"As opposed to appropriate, scientifically valid analysis for the future good of the colony?"

 _Moral high ground. Moral high ground_. Swallowing her annoyance, Yseult instead smiles sweetly, "I'll accept a lecture from you on the future good of the colony when you can make me a serviceable pair of shoes to replace the ones that are all but falling apart on your feet." There are only three cobblers in the Compound, and she was the one who recruited them. _Take that._

The woman stares at her, as though mortally insulted.

"Game, set and match, I think, Hannah." An amused voice comes from the doorway. The pair turn to see Malcolm leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, "It's a valid point, when you think about it."

Looking deeply embarrassed, the defeated biochemist hastens away.

"Sorry, Max. I'm afraid most of them think that - she's the only one that's got the nerve to say it - and probably only because she thought I was up to my neck in paperwork so I wouldn't overhear."

"Do _you_ think that?" She regrets the words the moment they're out of her mouth, but she can't stop them.

"God, no. I might've done when I first arrived and was so obnoxious it would've been a positive mercy to shoot me on the spot, but not now. They don't see the bigger picture; they're just fixed on their own fields. Our technology isn't going to last forever, and we need to be ready for when it gives out on us. I suppose it sounds unforgivably crass to say it, but you lot might well be the saving of this colony when that happens." He comes over to join her, "Are these your results?"

Yseult nods, "It's looking promising. I think we can try getting away with just using this wood and see what comes out the other side if we use the retort. It won't be completely pure, but the closest we can get without having to steam the wood, the happier I'll be. I can't be using one batch of charcoal to create the next one. Unless I try running off the excess heat from the blast furnace to run a boiler…" She starts musing, and reaches for her plex to make some notes.

He stares at her, the sudden trail of her thoughts from the matter in hand to solving another problem so utterly endearing that for a moment he has to clutch tightly at the hard edge of the table to stop himself impulsively grabbing hold of her and kissing her. God, how would that embarrass her if she doesn't feel the way he does?

"Er…would you be at all bothered if I came along to watch the charcoal burn?" he asks, hoping he hasn't gone red.

"Not at all, Malcolm. We make it a bit of a party, so the more the merrier. It'll get horribly boring, though - it's a long process, and you have to watch it constantly so we take it in shifts over the five day period. But then, if you really want to spend an entire night staring at a pile of smoking earth, then no one's going to object." She pauses, "If that's going to eat up too much of your time, you could always help analyse the results on the spot when we dig it out. Zoe's going to be recording it for her class newspaper."

"Another Shannon exclusive?"

"Oh yes." She smiles at him, "We'll start building from about eighteen hundred tomorrow. You're welcome to come along any time after that; just be prepared for some tragically awful singing, and some of the worst moonshine in the history of the Cretaceous."

"I'll see you tomorrow evening, then." He says, retreating partly to go back to his reports, partly to berate himself for, yet again, bailing out. He will have her company, yes - but he's going to have to share it with a gang of muscle-men who know her a hell of a lot better, and most of whom think he's an idiot. It is, however, a start.

She watches him go, and it takes all she has in her not to squeal and dance a jig. Maybe not a full-on date - but it's close.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** For those of you who are quietly demanding of Malcolm: 'Get On With It!' - like the enormous crowd at the end of _Monty Python and the Holy Grail -_ not much longer now...


	8. Slow Burn

Chapter Eight

 _Slow Burn_

Taylor is leaning on the balustrade again as Jim mounts the steps to the Command Centre. Something he seems to be doing a lot lately. Since Guzman returned with his team, the concept of 'no news is good news' seems to be altogether more inviting than it did when they were still OTG, and in some ways, Jim almost wishes that they still didn't know anything. Even the knowledge that they'd be prepared to take on anyone who might try to snatch their world away from them again doesn't really help. The people out there are likely to be extremely desperate, as opposed to merely being extremely determined - and in some ways desperation is far more dangerous.

"I can't help thinking that we're going to have the Sixers on our doorsteps soon." Taylor murmurs as Jim joins him, "Mira's proud. She's only going to take being a servant so long before she decides to leave them to their own devices to find out that they need her more than she needs them."

"I guess the only real reason she's staying is that the alternative is coming back here and having to deal with you. That's going to eat into her pride just as much."

"True."

Jim looks out across the trees beyond the fence, "Would it be so bad for us if they did come back? We'd know where we stand with Mira. There's no supplies coming in any more, so no raids on convoys. We'd hold all the cards this time around. We could call the shots - maybe even negotiate…"

"Not a chance." Taylor interrupts.

"If those Phoenix soldiers come looking to take over again, the more hands we have, the better." Jim tries again, "And it's not like we couldn't use their survival skills."

"No way."

"Well, what have we got that they can take from us now?"

"Malcolm." Taylor counters, "What would stop them from snatching him and selling him off to the Phoenix group? They want to fix their terminus - he can do it. Mira gets some support from them against us - and, if they manage to get back in contact with 2149, we're screwed."

"He'd never help them this time. He only did it before because it was that or have his staff murdered in front of him one by one. If they take just him, there'd be no chance he'd do it."

"And they'd kill him. We'd lose him, as much as they would. We can't afford to lose his expertise any more than they can, and I'm not treating him as an object to be handed over, bartered, sold or stolen. He's part of the family."

"A very annoying part of the family." Jim smirks. Then looks more serious, "Do you want me to put a team on to it?"

"Not yet." Taylor shakes his head, "While we're a Sixer-free zone, there's no reason why they'd move against us. Besides: if you do, and he finds out, then I'll never hear the end of it. He hasn't grown up _that_ much."

"Good point; but I'll bear it in mind."

* * *

"It's based on what's known as a 'Casamance' kiln, Zoe," Yseult explains as Pete and Graham stack wood in an upright position, slowly extending out into a circle over a bed of tree boughs laid flat on the ground, "What we'll do is build in that chimney there as we cover up the entire pile with grass, straw and sandy soil with just a hole at the top. We'll then drop in lighted wood and, once the pile is alight and ready to be sealed, we'll fit that long pipe to connect the chimney to the top so that it goes into the hole that we used to light it and seal it all up. Then we wait."

"How long for?" Zoe asks.

"About five days." She smiles, "I'm afraid it's not a quick process. The burn itself will take two or three days but then we've got to let the kiln cool down so that it doesn't go up in flames when we open it."

"Wow." She sounds suitably impressed. Even Josh, who has, as promised, returned to supervise her, seems intrigued.

"How old is this process?" he asks.

"No one has a definitive answer for that one," she admits, "I imagine it's been going on for as long as people have been smelting metals - if not longer. Thousands of years - or at least they would do, except for the fact that we're doing it tens of millions of years too early. It never ceases to amaze me how people figured things out all those years ago without understanding the processes involved."

"Is that why you do what you do?"

"Definitely. We're amazing creatures when we're not being irredeemably stupid." She smiles at Zoe, "You can quote me on that if you like."

The kiln is largely complete by the time people are drifting in. Being something of a specialised process, only Yseult, Pete and Graham, who doubles as a collier when he's not milling, are permitted to build it.

"D'you want me to do the honours, Max?" Pete calls across, indicating the lighting point at the top of the mound.

"Could you?" she answers. Zoe is clearly rather tired, and as it's getting dark, she needs to complete the first part of the interview before her interviewer falls asleep and must be carried a half hour walk back to her home. As it is, Josh has the look of someone who knows an unpalatable chore lies ahead. Zoe is not as light as she once was.

"Do you want to borrow my bike?" Yseult asks, as they finish up, "I've got a trailer I can put on the back - it's not ideal, but we can line it with blankets if you like. I won't need it for the next few days - I'll be here for the duration."

He thinks about it for a moment, then nods, "If I could, that'd be great. Zoe's getting heavy these days."

She smiles and takes him across to the shed. It helps to be busy - largely because there is only one person that she wants to see - who hasn't arrived. She could do with the distraction to keep herself from wondering if Malcolm's changed his mind about coming over.

"I like this." Zoe mumbles, a little drowsily, as she's settled into the trailer hitched to the back of the bike.

"Me too, Zo." Josh grins at her, "I don't have to carry you."

"Take it slowly at first, Josh. Even if you're a regular bike rider, pulling a trailer takes a bit of getting used to." Yseult advises.

"I'll be okay - it's lit the whole way back, so I won't hit anything I shouldn't." It's been a long time since he last rode a bike, and it shows somewhat as he pulls away in a rather wobbly fashion. He is, however, determined not to need to have to carry his sister, and focuses on getting the hang of it as quickly as possible. She smiles as he heads away, and then notices a lone figure making their way on foot towards the gathering. It's him.

She can't resist the question, "You didn't drive?"

Malcolm shakes his head, "Your lot think I'm an idiot as it is. I wasn't going to turn up in a rover and prove it." He looks back, "Was that Josh Shannon on your bike?"

"With Zoe in a trailer? Yes - part one of the interview ended when the interviewer dropped off. The walk out here was a bit more than she was expecting after a long day at school, I think." She heads through to the open space where the kiln is being watched, "Come on, we're going to try fitting the retort in a minute. It looks as though we're nearly ready."

* * *

By the time midnight hoves into view, the party is settled down alongside a cheerful bonfire that serves more for effect and light than heat, as the night is warm. With Pete concentrating on the kiln, someone has retrieved a guitar, and the promised singing has begun. As Yseult warned, the quality of the voices is variable at best, and the intonation is nothing to write home about. It is, however, of considerably better quality than the rough alcohol that is being passed about in an unmarked bottle. Everyone who has taken a pull at it so far has either spat it out, or choked slightly as they swallowed it. Not daring to make a fool of himself, Malcolm declines, only for Mike, Yseult's hugely muscled assistant blacksmith, to snatch the bottle away, "Lightweight."

"Behave, Mike." Graham calls across, "That stuff makes cat's piss taste like Chateauneuf du Pape."

Mike makes an indelicate noise, and takes a swig, only for it to catch him out as much as anyone else. Being loath to spit it out, he goes instead for the choke - but hasn't swallowed. Consequently, everyone cheers rather ironically as it emerges in a rather revolting spray from his nose, while the rest drops out of his suddenly open mouth.

"Think you made the right choice there, mate." Pete calls across to Malcolm from his vantage point near the kiln.

"Sing us a song, Max." Graham says, largely to cover Mike's embarrassing retchings.

"Do I have to?" she asks, suddenly shy, "My voice isn't that good."

"You sing in German. That's always fun to listen to - we can't understand a word."

"In that case, you can sing some godawful redneck song afterwards." She says, impudently, "Come on, give me the guitar. You can never keep up with me."

Once the instrument is in her hands, however, she feels slightly sick. The one thing she cannot face doing is making an idiot of herself in front of the man to her left. Had he not been there, she would have already launched herself into the song she is planning to sing, as it's the one she knows best - or, rather, has forgotten the least.

 _Pretend he's not there._

Fat lot of good that's going to do - but she keeps on pretending, and starts plucking out the accompaniment to a folk song about people from a suburb of Berlin on a day trip to a park. As her voice is, as she admits, not strong, she has always made up for it by pushing the absurdity of the lyrics. No one about her understands German, and certainly not the Berlin dialect of the song, so they always fall about laughing at her performance, mainly because they are, truth be told, cheerfully pissed by the time she normally sings it.

It takes a verse or so to get into it, but she is soon hamming it up, and everyone about her is giggling helplessly. Except one. Sitting slightly behind her, Malcolm watches her in fascination. He had entirely forgotten that she speaks - _is_ \- German, and he is enjoying the performance as much as anyone - albeit without the slightly woozy filter of alcohol. Sod it. Tomorrow, he is bloody well going to ask her out, and damn the consequences.

* * *

Four days into the burn, Yseult sits and watches over the kiln. As is usually the case, everyone has got fed up with partying, and has drifted away to their other projects. As long as someone comes by tonight to keep her awake, she quite enjoys the solitude during the early evening.

Despite Mike's rudeness to Malcolm on the first night, the rest of the evening went remarkably well; Graham had, as promised, hammed up a southern folk song as ridiculously as she had performed _Bolle reiste jüngst zu Pfingsten_ , and people had had better manners than to try and press their increasingly nervous guest into contributing to the general noise. The only sore point, however, is that he has not come back since.

As she never leaves a burn, she has no idea why he hasn't returned after that supposedly successful evening, but she can't help but wonder if her silly behaviour put him off. He certainly has a reputation for being rather straight-laced, and to be surrounded by people being so foolish might well have been more than he was expecting. And she can't even talk to him about it. Not with the kiln to watch. God - what if she _has_ put him off? The thought is horrible, and for a moment she feels as though she might even cry. Over what, though? It's not as though he's ever indicated that he reciprocates her feelings - and what if they're just some stupid crush anyway? Irked with herself, she walks around the kiln to check for hot spots that might become cracks, before sitting back down and resuming her brooding.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?"

She turns, startled, to see Malcolm standing a few feet away, a bottle of something in his hand.

"What, my intimate congress with a pile of burning wood? Interrupt away, by all means."

He sits beside her, "I'm sorry I've not been back. I spend one evening away from the labs and it all goes to hell. It's ridiculous - two of the botanists got into a stupid argument - over a flask, would you believe? I had two extremely angry complaints on my desk the next morning, and it's taken me the last two days to get the pair of them to grow up. I even had to confiscate the bloody flask. And that got me behind, so I've had to spend today up to my ears in paperwork." He offers her the bottle, the label of which professes it to contain home-brewed elderflower wine, "One of Julia's less hideous concoctions. Not exactly Chateauneuf du Pape, but it's better than the paint stripper they were passing about."

"And you don't mind chugging it out of the bottle?"

"I knew I'd forgotten something." He mutters, not entirely seriously.

"Where did you learn that song?" he asks, after they've sat in companionable silence for a while, and shared a few gulps from the bottle.

"From my _Opa_. Sorry, Granddad." She explains, "He was from Berlin, hence the Berlin dialect."

"I could tell." Malcolm lies.

"Naturally."

"How did you get into archaeology?" he resumes.

"From Opa again - he had a huge collection of artefacts, and I was always fascinated by them. By the time I was old enough to study it properly, there were hardly any courses being offered in Germany any more - everything was being pushed towards trying to reverse the damage we'd done to the climate. Only Cologne had courses by that time, so I went there. I was born in Frankfurt." She smiles, "I think most of the significant things that happened in my life happened in Germany - I was born there, I found my passion there, and I met my husband there."

She doesn't notice Malcolm tense slightly beside her at the mention of the dread word _husband_ , "He was German, too?"

She shakes her head, "No, he was English, despite the Irish spelling of his name - I met him at a symposium in Berlin. I was fluent in standard English by that point, but he was the one who taught me to speak colloquial English. He had some civil engineering skills, but we came here because of my skills rather than his. Commander Taylor found him to be a great help, though. He did everything he could to get him back to the compound after the Nykoraptors attacked his work party. That's why I gave him the sword. I made them to keep myself from going to pieces in the first year or so after he died."

"I'm sorry." Malcolm mumbles, rather embarrassed.

"Don't be. We were happy, and we spent a year here in a clean world with hope and wonder at seeing a starry sky. I'll always treasure that. I have good friends, a fascinating job that encompasses everything I ever wanted to do, and people are starting to appreciate what I do."

"Apart from snooty biochemists?"

"With shoes that are coming apart." She agrees, then turns to him, "So, what about you? What brought you here?"

"I'm not that exciting - I'd bore you."

"Come on - I've had a little too much elderflower wine and I've spilled. Your turn."

He thinks for a moment, "Fair enough. I'll tell you something no one else here knows. Just between you and me."

"What's that?" She asks, startled out of her tipsiness by the implication of exclusivity.

"I'm actually Scottish."

Yseult stares at him, "You're having me on, aren't you?"

He shakes his head, "I promise you I'm not. I was born in Kilmarnock."

"But you sound so _English_." She pauses, "Sorry - that came out a bit drunk, didn't it?"

"On paper, I _am_ English. I have English citizenship and I sound entirely Home Counties - but I was born in Scotland and spoke with a Scots accent until I was about twelve."

"How did you get English citizenship if you were a Scot? They restricted it to blood relatives only after 2112, didn't they? I only managed to get a Spouse residency card."

"My mother had English relatives."

"Would it be too intrusive to ask why you left?"

He shakes his head, "My father was Duncan Wallace."

She stares at him, " _The_ Duncan Wallace?"

He nods, "Most people say that. When he was indicted by the Internal Security Committee in 2119, my mother lost her job, we lost our house and we had no choice but to get out. It was either that or live in poverty for the rest of our lives, and she wasn't willing to do that to me. She even had to sell her wedding ring to pay for the exit passes. The last time I saw him was when he was escorted away to attend the hearings at Holyrood. I was ten."

"God, I'm so sorry - I didn't mean to pry." There isn't anyone in Europe that doesn't remember the awful episode when Scotland's Internal Security Ministry had moved against democracy campaigners in 2119. The situation in Scotland was hardly unique - most Governments had abandoned elections once it became clear that the planet wasn't going to make it. The difference was that there were more Scots who were brave enough to demand that they weren't going to put up with it. Things had gone wrong only when a group of young people had radicalised to the point of instigating riots, and then there was the car bombing in Dunfermline that killed twenty children aboard a school bus…

Malcolm stares at the smoking kiln, "It didn't last that long - the committee went too far in the end, and the First Minister had to step in, or the entire country would've exploded. Mind you, it only _really_ hit the fan when it came out that one of the Committee's backers had paid some mercenaries to come in and stage the car bombing as a pretext to stamp out the protests, and that stuck about six MSPs behind bars. It was too late for my father, though. He died of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease in Barlinnie Prison before they quashed his conviction."

Without thinking, she takes hold of his hand, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he continues, "We were lucky - my mother's relatives were good people, and they took us in without even thinking about it. We got English citizenship so I could go to school - most of the schools were appalling by that point, but we had no money, so I tried out for a scholarship to Harrow, and got it. That's where I dropped the accent - partly to avoid being singled out, but mostly because I hated Scotland for what it did to my father, and to me, I suppose. I was too young to really understand what had actually happened - it took me a long time to reconcile with it and stop blaming an entire country for the actions of one politician."

"And everyone thinks you're so posh."

"In some ways, they'd be right. Everything I did after I left school was thanks to the network of old Harrovians - I was pretty much bankrolled through my higher education by a Bradby's Old Boy who saw my potential."

"Bradbys?"

"My House at Harrow."

"I'm still trying to get over the thought of you in a boater."

"It's a 'Harrow hat', thank you very much." He corrects her, with entirely false pompousness, "He paid for my place at Oxford. I met Elisabeth there, believe it or not."

"Elisabeth Shannon?"

He nods, "She was studying Clinical Pharmacology at the time - but she was thinking of switching to medicine. She ended up going to St Thomas's in London before transferring to Chicago to complete her studies there, and we lost touch. I stayed at Oxford, got a double first in Chemistry and Biochemistry, then I went to Trinity at Cambridge to do a Masters in Earth Sciences and Zoology - which I managed to get onto because I had the Biochemistry degree. I revisited Chemistry for my doctorate, and then went off to Imperial to study electronics and electrical engineering because I got interested in how all the analytical equipment worked. If I wrote out all the letters that I'm entitled to put after my name, it'd be longer than my name, particularly if you add the _Oxon_ and _Cantab_."

"How did you get here?"

"I applied for a research fellowship and faculty post at Northeastern in Boston. By that point, I'd heard about this place - and the only thing I wanted to do was get here - and I knew my best chance was to get myself some experience in the US. It just went from there, really."

"And you've never looked back?" she finishes.

"I try not to. My mother died of COPD when I was at Imperial, so I had nothing to keep me in the future." He looks up at the sky, where the stars are now out, the sweep of the milky way bright and vivid, "I know people think that I was born with a silver spoon up my arse, but I had to work damned hard to get what I have." For a moment, he looks sad, "The only real memory I have left of my father is seeing him get in that car. If I'd known I wasn't ever going to see him again, I would've tried harder to hold onto it."

He still has hold of her hand; but then he turns to her - and promptly loses his nerve, "Maybe we should check the kiln again."

The moment is past, "Good point." She says, scrambling to her feet.

* * *

The gathering to watch the grand digging out is surprisingly large given that it usually consists of two people with shovels. Pete and Yseult are tasked with the grand unveiling, but Maddy has escorted Zoe to watch, while Malcolm has turned up with a pile of equipment to test whatever lies within the kiln. Given the weight of the apparatus, he has driven over, which has - perhaps inevitably - led to acerbic comments from Mike about his rover.

"Okay - here we go, Zoe. No promises, I'm afraid. We don't know what's in here yet - it's still very experimental." Between them, Yseult and Pete get to work with their shovels.

Within about ten minutes, however, the pile proves to have been remarkably productive. While the shrinkage has been significant, the overall yield is looking close to 50%: a spectacular result for a process that usually would produce half that at best.

"I think the retort's been a real success," Pete advises Zoe as she hovers close, but not that close, to the dusty environment where they are retrieving the charcoal, "And this wood has done very well. The wood tar that came out while we were burning looks very good as well. We'll be talking to Doctor Shannon about that - wood tar is very good for treating wounds."

"It is?" Zoe asks, excited that her mother is to be involved.

"Don't get too close, Zoe," Maddy warns, "Mom won't be pleased if you come home covered in soot."

"I'll leave you and the good Doctor to sort the analysis out. Let me know when you need me back to shovel out." Pete says to Yseult, "I've got to check some of the coppices."

"Will do." She turns to Malcolm, "I hope you don't mind ruining what you've got on. This stuff is hideously difficult to get out of fabrics."

"I'll survive." Stepping carefully, he joins her beside the blackened pile, "Where do you want to start?"

"Looking at it, I don't think we've managed to get full on white charcoal, but it still looks good." Crouching, Yseult reaches for a carbonised log with a gloved hand, and carefully crumbles some of it away, "Do you need chunks or crumbs?"

"I'll probably manage better with crumbs," he says, smiling at her mild humour, "I'm going to need to pulverise it anyway." He looks back across at Zoe, "Sorry - this is going to be boring for a bit. Do you want us to let you know how good this stuff is later?"

She thinks about it, then nods, "I have to go back to class. Can I have a picture?"

"Go on then." Maddy sighs, equally keen to get back to work.

"Hang on a minute." Yseult removes her gloves, dibbles her fingers in the soot and smears two thick black lines on each cheek, "How about the 'Teutonic Warrior' look?"

Zoe laughs, but then everyone turns to look at Malcolm.

"What?" he asks, nervously.

"Aren't you prepared to go tribal for the camera? I'm not sure that 'British Middle Class' is exactly a tribe but…" she knows he wouldn't want her to let on about his true ethnicity. That's for him to do.

He sighs, knowing that it's a humiliation that he cannot escape, and leans forward slightly, "Just get it over with."

Yseult dibbles again, and smudges a thick line across his face, from one cheekbone to the other, passing over the bridge of his nose, "There. Now you look suitably savage."

"This wasn't on the job description." He complains, though mostly because they expect him to.

"Come on. It's only one shot. Say cheese?" Yseult grins, then strikes a suitably ridiculous 'growling' expression and pose.

"Oh God…" he mutters, but consents to do likewise, which causes much laughter from his intern.

"Just think - this'll be going to everyone in the colony." Maddy calls across.

"I thought it was just the school."

"Not this edition. Bye!" Maddy hustles Zoe away before Malcolm can protest.

"She wouldn't, would she?" Yseult asks.

"Yes." Malcolm sighs, "She would." For a moment, they are face to face, and the sight of him looking so disgruntled while wearing a thick stripe of charcoal dust across his nose is so ridiculous that Yseult bursts out laughing.

"Oh, sod it." He says, finally abandoning the stupid inhibitions that have kept him from reaching out to her, and silences her with a kiss.

* * *

 **A Quick Author's Note:** And there we have it. Controversial? I hope not. As I said at the outset - assuming that I _haven't_ lobbed a massive feline into a large gathering of columbidae - there is method in my madness with the backstory I've given Malcolm.

In a nutshell:

Why Scottish? Partly because of his name ('Malcolm' derives from the Scots _Máel Coluim_ , while Wallace - despite its Anglo-Norman roots - is now very closely associated with Scotland - and yes, there's a Clan), and partly because of the infamous, and never elaborated upon, Edinburgh Hearings. Having worked for many years with a Scot who had a resolutely Scots name, but not an accent, I felt it was plausible to do the same with Malcolm - for the reasons he outlines to Yseult.

I'm basing the Hearings/exile theory on the assumption that the UK has broken up into its constituent nations, though I've retained Scottish Parliamentary terms (MSP/First Minister etc.) from the Devolved Government. As the Parliament building is in the Holyrood area of the City, and is referred to in general UK parlance by the metonym 'Holyrood', I've also kept that. Therefore, the Hearings would be an internal Scottish incident that grew to infamous proportions rather than something international that took place there.

Regarding my view of his relationship with Elisabeth, it's possible to study Medicine at Oxford, but I wanted to create a physical separation alongside their breakup, so I changed her initial field of study, then switched it back and sent her to London - St Thomas's being one of the most highly regarded Teaching Hospitals in the UK, if not the world. The Colleges of Oxbridge don't specialise in particular subjects, so it's quite normal for undergraduates studying entirely different fields to be at the same one.

Lastly, _Oxon_ is a short form of _Oxoniensis_ _-_ which refers to Oxford, and _Cantab_ is short for _Cantabrigiensis_ , which refers to Cambridge.

I'll shut up now, and get back to the story...


	9. Harvest

Chapter Nine

 _Harvest_

Tom Boylan's face is a picture of disgust as he counts a disconcertingly large pile of terras onto the bar in front of a rather jubilant Mark Reynolds. No one - except for the lovelorn soldier, of course - had taken the 'Will Malcolm get it together with Max' betting ring all that seriously, so while the sums laid down had been small, the numbers laying them had been cheerfully large. Consequently, his guess 'dating before harvest festival' has proved to be correct, while the more facetious suggestions such as 'possibly in six years if he's good enough at brainwashing', 'only if he drugs her' and 'doesn't she have better taste than that?' have been rewarded with nothing more than rather mean snorts of laughter. Even Malcolm has figured out by now that his primary role in the social life of the Colony is to be roundly mocked for being a pompous twit.

"So," Josh asks, leaning on the bar alongside his boss, "What're you gonna spend it on, or my sister?"

"Did you ask that for effect?" Boylan drawls, his annoyance largely a pretence, as he is as charmed as everyone else by the rather cute manner in which Mark is courting Maddy.

"Of course." He leans closer, "There's a nice leatherworked bag on Casey's stall that she's been looking at a lot. He's not sold it yet because he's waiting to see if she bites."

Mark shakes his head, "I'm going to treat her to dinner."

"That suits me fine." Boylan grins, cheerfully, "I get my money back."

"Not if it's on the house." Skye interrupts, having walked in on their conversation.

"You wouldn't." He warns.

"Maybe not - but _you_ would, you hoary old romantic, you." She wheedles, slyly.

"Fair enough," he concedes, with a dramatic roll of the eyes, "Slap up feed: on the house. Go get her that bag, Reynolds."

* * *

Yseult sits in the shade of a tree near the orchards and retrieves a packet of sandwiches from a basket that Judith, her lone basket-weaver, made for her birthday a year ago. In her determination to adhere to the appropriate cliché, she has even found a red and white checked table cloth to spread out on the grass.

They have managed quite well to keep their relationship quiet - it was almost two weeks before anyone noticed - a time that was theirs and theirs alone. No loaded comments, no knowing glances; just the assurance of a warm presence that even now still has a sense of unreality. She never thought she would feel like this ever again.

Needless to say, she has been ribbed quite mercilessly by her colleagues since they found out that Malcolm kissed her - and that she didn't just accept it, but responded; once she'd got over the shock of his utterly unexpected - and entirely impulsive - move. What an idiot - why did she let it slide for so long? Too shy: too fearful of a knock back. The only time she had attempted a relationship in the years after Niall died had been rather disastrous; she soon realised that she was on the rebound, and the whole thing just fizzled out. With that extra label of 'the widow', most men seem to make the immediate assumption that she's a harpy on the hunt for a mate, and back off accordingly. Only her team don't seem to see her that way - or at least it was only them until she met Malcolm.

The rustling sound of footsteps on grass captures her attention and she looks up, smiling to see him approaching, bottle in hand, "Not alcohol today, I'm afraid," Malcolm advises as he sits down beside her, "I've got another appointment with that scorpion this afternoon, and I can't really do that drunk."

"I don't think my new section of pipe will hammer out very well either." She smiles, offering him a sandwich, "Though I think it would make the piping system look suitably Heath Robinson."

As Malcolm leans back against the tree trunk, she almost instinctively leans against him, her head on his shoulder. His response is to wrap his arm about her shoulders and rest it there, as though they were meant to fit together like that. Her family were always quite tactile when showing their affection, something that Niall struggled with. That Malcolm seems not to mind when she rests her hand on his arm, or leans close to him, reminds her of her childhood, and her home. She had assumed that he would be as standoffish as Niall used to be if she got too affectionate, if not more so. But he has neither objected nor shown any discontent - not even in public once people found out about them. Far from it, in fact. It seems to her that he has been as in dire need of that simple human contact as she has.

"I like it here." Malcolm observes, a little drowsily, after they've eaten, and sat in companionable silence for a while, "No one complaining at me, or expecting me to side with them in some stupid argument. And I get to spend time with you without having to try and think of something else that I can get you to bring to the labs for me to test."

"I certainly like having you at my beck and call. It's a hell of a lot easier than it was when I was rootling around for something else to introduce to your mass spectrometer. I imagine it must be quite relieved not to have to be a matchmaker anymore."

He catches a glimpse of his watch, and sighs, "Blast. I have to get back. That scorpion hates me enough as it is."

The kiss they share before he departs is warm, and she looks up at him as they break apart, "Is it too soon to say that I think I'm a bit in love with you?"

"After how long it took me to get to this point?" Malcolm asks, "I don't think so. I still can't believe I was too much of a coward to act sooner."

"Thank God for school journalists and excessive soot."

* * *

Taylor stands alongside his desk and takes a deep breath, "Sit down, both of you." His expression is neutral, but somehow neither Malcolm nor Yseult feel that it will stay that way for long. Their burgeoning relationship was bound to get back to him eventually, and the fact that she is now dating her boss - with all the attendant problems of assumed favouritism and conflicts of interest that are sure to follow like a bad smell - means that he is likely to have some rather sharp words to say about the whole business.

"First of all, let me make it clear that I do not consider either of you to be children, and I have no interest in what the two of you get up to in your private lives. My only concern is the future wellbeing of this colony."

"Commander, let me be the first to assure you…" Malcolm begins.

"What?" Taylor interrupts, "That it won't impact on your work? Of course it won't - we've had to watch the pair of you blundering around each other like lovesick teenagers for weeks, and _that_ didn't impact on your work. As far as I can tell the productivity that came out of it is pretty astonishing. But I think we all know that things can't continue as they are, don't we?"

Yseult's eyes widen, while Malcolm shakes his head, "Are you suggesting that we not see each other?"

Taylor rolls his eyes, "Don't be such an ass, Malcolm - of course I'm not suggesting that. Like I said, you're not kids, either of you - at least not all the time. If you're a couple now, then you can't be Max's boss, can you? I'll get it in the neck every time you allocate resources to one of her projects instead of someone who thinks they've got a new way to split an atom. No; that's never gonna work, so she's not reporting to you anymore. You report to me from now on, Max - and I'll give you full control of your resources."

"Seriously?" Yseult asks, "You don't mind that we're seeing each other?"

Taylor suddenly breaks into a humorous smile, "I like your priorities, Max. I pile a heap of paperwork responsibilities on you and all you care about is your boyfriend."

She reddens, but nonetheless looks at Malcolm and snatches at his hand almost jubilantly, before getting up to cross to the conference table to await the arrival of Elisabeth and Jim for their weekly briefing.

"Malcolm." Taylor comes to stand beside his Chief Science Officer as he watches her fondly, "If you hurt her, I swear to God I'll skin you alive and hang you outside the gates for the Carnos."

Malcolm shakes his head, his eyes almost fixed upon her, "You wouldn't need to. I'd have walked out and found one myself."

* * *

"There's no sign of any unwelcome neighbours other than the usual ones with teeth and claws," Jim reports, "Now that we know where the Sixers used to hang out, I have patrols scope it out now and again - but all they're doing is spotting more stuff that's fallen down from the trees."

Taylor nods, "Keep the area under surveillance. If Mira's as close to the end of her tether with the Phoenix soldiers as Guzman reckoned, they could come back at any time. Even if we know they're there now, it'll be easier to rebuild what they've got rather than start from scratch."

"Do you think they'd make contact with us?" Elisabeth asks.

"Mira knows what'd happen if they did." Taylor growls, "We're secure here, and she knows it. Besides, she'd rather chew out her own liver than come grovelling to me."

Yseult listens to their conversation, but says nothing, as the occupation had so little impact upon her or her team. They were there for one purpose: to create a two-way portal to 2149 and use it for the financial gain of a greedy corporation. A bunch of people messing about with ancient technologies was of no interest to them. Others suffered far more than her team did, and she always feels something of a fraud if she talks about the incident. Beside her, however, Malcolm has gone very quiet, and he seems resolutely determined not to think about the possibility of the Sixers returning. Yseult turns to see that Elisabeth has also noticed, and they share a sad glance: he must be thinking about the murder of his assistant again. She rests her hand on his, gently, and he turns to her for a moment, grateful for the gesture.

Taylor turns to Elisabeth, "Anything to report?"

She nods, "I'm afraid we had another scorpion sting a few days ago. The victim was one of the horticulturalists in the spelt fields. Fortunately we've just finished establishing an emergency protocol for this eventuality, so we had a trained emergency medic on hand to deal with it. She's still in the infirmary, but she's making a good recovery. The antivenin isn't ready yet - the venom is proving to be incredibly stubborn - but we've made some progress with it, so we're hopeful to have something that I can run clinical tests on fairly soon."

"Where are these damned things coming from?"

"We think there must've been a population boom in the last two years or so, Commander." Malcolm says, apparently now fully back in the room, "the weather's been particularly benign, so insect levels were high. We don't know if these creatures have any particular predators, but either way, their numbers have increased, so they need more territory to expand into. I can't find anything that seems to actively repel them, and they're not yet really numerous enough to warrant any form of a cull. Since these things are ground based, I think the best means of preventing any further stings is to require people to avoid wearing shorts or maybe wear gaiters of some kind to protect their lower legs. And gloves to protect their hands if they're working at ground level."

"We could probably help with that." Yseult adds, "We've had some success tanning slasher skins, and one of my leatherworkers could design something - though supply would be a problem; we've only used pelts recovered from fresh carrion. I wouldn't advocate hunting slashers purely for leather."

"I would." Taylor mutters, only half seriously, "What about crop yields?" he changes the subject briskly: slaughtering the local wildlife purely for skins goes against his ethos for the colony.

Malcolm checks through some figures on his plex, "Very good, Commander. The only failure we had was with an experimental crop of tubers that might, or might not, be precursors of potatoes - that blight that killed off the local supply of Taroca hit that as well. Chris is already assigning teams to work on preparing a number of gluts for storage. Whatever happens over the coming winter - we certainly won't starve."

"That's something I like to hear." Taylor approves.

* * *

Jim remains behind as the meeting breaks up, "Do you want me to fix up some cameras at Sixer-central?"

Taylor shakes his head, "Mira's too smart. She'd find them in less than an hour and we'd lose 'em. Just have patrols keep an eye out. The moment there's even a hint of people being back, we'll withdraw and see what she does. They won't have anything like the resources they had before they headed north, so I can't see any threat from them. That said, I'm not planning on being complacent either. If they come back, we double up security on the fences and gate."

Jim nods, "Fine." He pauses, "So, how are you with the Saccharine twins?"

"Pardon?" Taylor stares at him, confused.

"Our new Lovebirds." Jim's expression is mildly amused, but there is no malice in his tone, "I'm not sure whether it's cute or nauseating."

"I haven't seen her this happy since before her husband died." Taylor muses, "Or him, for that matter. At least he's not carrying a torch for your wife anymore."

"Is it me or are they being a bit teenager about all of this? I thought it was just Mark - and only because he thinks I'm Mr Overprotective."

"What, they're courting the old fashioned way? Be fair, Shannon - to my knowledge, this is the first proper relationship she's had since she was widowed - and he's got his own reasons for being a gentleman, so why not let them get on with it at their own pace? Unless you plan on following them around with a notebook and scorecards."

"I think I'll just get on with my security rosters."

"You do that."

* * *

Music is playing through the speakers: a selection of pieces that have been retrieved from the Eye to tie in with the performance by the children. This year's theme is intended to reflect the pastoral nature of something that people jokingly refer to as 'Merrie England', which has caused much amusement for those colonists who _are_ English - whether through birth or otherwise - particularly as most of the music seems to be by Ralph Vaughan Williams and, consequently, is traditional only in terms either of name or source material.

In keeping with the intended theme, some of the stallholders and agriculture staff have assembled a magnificent array of produce, and Graham, who bakes when he isn't milling, has created an enormous Harvest Loaf in the traditional shape of a wheat sheaf as a centrepiece. Being from Oklahoma, he has had to draft in Pete to act as his 'Traditional English stuff' consultant, but the result looks very impressive. Yseult has also forged a rather nice bread knife to cut it.

As they always do, the youngsters have been saving gourds and squashes throughout the year to use as decorations and lanterns, with many households subsequently engaged in the annual routine of hollowing out, carving and painting. As both Maddy and Josh are working these days, this task in the Shannon household has largely fallen to Zoe, so Elisabeth has thrown a 'gourd painting' party during the morning for those kids who have no legions of siblings to assist their efforts prior to their last dance rehearsal.

Jim watches the group of children at work, chattering amongst themselves as they daub paint on a range of vegetables that he spent most of yesterday evening hollowing out, "Thank God we only do this once a year." He raises his left hand rather dubiously, where a large adhesive dressing covers a nasty cut across his palm. As they no longer have access to supplies of the all-but-miraculous derma-spray, and no means to manufacture more, Elisabeth tends to restrict its use to major injuries only these days.

"My poor wounded soldier." Elisabeth coos, with blatantly false sympathy, "It'll be worth all your pain and blood when you see the results."

"Blood, sweat and tears." He grins at her, cheerfully.

As is always the case for the Festival, a stage has been built along one side of the marketplace, with the display set out across the front of it. The children will perform a set of English country dances, accompanied by the small folk band that serenaded Josh's opening night at the Bar. Only those who can't be spared from their work during the day won't be present, so the crowd gathering to watch the performance is very impressive. Josh is working with the food vendors to ensure that the evening party is well stocked with both food and drink, and Boylan is hoping that his latest attempt at cider might actually have worked out this time, having found that the orchards contain a largely inedible variety provided by accident which has been put to use as a buffer to protect the main orchard from heavy weather. If it proves successful, Taylor may even agree to allow him full access to the crop.

Sitting on a bench with Elisabeth and Maddy, Jim looks about with a perpetually security-conscious eye. Naturally, the audience primarily consists of proud parents, but there are plenty of people sitting down purely to enjoy themselves, snacking on fruit kebabs, grilled unidentifiables on sticks and in spelt rolls that are likely to be Xiph, or possibly Gallusaur, and imbibing more improbably coloured fruit concoctions courtesy of Josh and Skye. He watches as the pair work together at their improvised exterior bar. They have definitely bonded - even he can see that. His son has recovered from the loss of Kara - though the presence of the platinum necklace shows that he hasn't forgotten her, and never shall - and he is most definitely moving on. It could be worse, he supposes; now that Skye has escaped Mira's grip, she is proving to be a remarkably level-headed young woman. He could cope with her as a daughter-in-law.

He shudders at the thought. God, that makes him sound so _old_.

His attention returns to the stage as the band strikes up, and the children skip out onto the stage to form two lines, and proceed to perform a dance that, Elisabeth tells him, as he wasn't listening to the introduction, is called _Roger de Coverley_ and is something to do with a fox. It is followed by a merry dance called _Jubilee Jig_ , and the rather bizarrely named _Jack's Maggot_ , to which the audience is invited to clap to keep time, and the equally oddly named _Ore Boggy_ , which has probably been chosen for its name alone, as it causes much giggling amongst the children.

A few rows behind them, Yseult is sitting with Mike and Pete, having abandoned their work for the day. Pete is there largely to offer acerbic, albeit highly amusing, commentary on the success of the 'traditional Merrie England' theme, while Yseult and Mike laugh at him for doing so, "It looks cool, Pete. Let it slide." Mike grins at him, then he pulls a face, "Don't look now. It's Khaki Man."

"Behave, Mike." Yseult slaps his arm again, "Besides, he's wearing beige today, so you're not even accurate." She slips away and crosses to join Malcolm, greeting him with a kiss, "I thought you couldn't get away."

"So did I - but then I thought, 'bugger that; I'm in charge' and decided I could. Have I missed it?"

"No, I think there's one more to come. I expect it's got a silly name - the other dances have been magnificently ridiculously named." She leads him back to the benches to join her colleagues, and Pete cheerfully budges up to make room for them.

The final dance turns out to be called _Mad Robin_ , which is slightly more complicated for the children to dance, and all watch in hope that it doesn't fall apart. It is, however, performed with aplomb, and the applause at the end is thunderous as the performers take their bows and leave the stage to return to their now-even-prouder parents while the band moves on to the American folk music to which they are more accustomed.

* * *

As darkness falls, and lights in the hanging gourds are turned on to add a cute twinkling effect to the ambience, Taylor mounts the stage to address the assembled throng. His speech is as much a fixture as the performances, and no one feels that the party can start until he's invited people to get dancing.

For a moment, he can't speak, almost overwhelmed by the success of the year so far; but he swallows, clears his throat and smiles at everyone, "Thank you again for an amazing festival performance. I can't begin to tell you all how proud I am to be at the head of this Colony, I try every year to find the words, and I always miss the mark. I'll probably do no better this year, but - hey - stranger things have happened.

"We've had a great year - we're ready to face the winter, and everyone's pulled together as they always do to make that happen. You are all family. My family, each other's family. We've faced challenges and adversity - and I know that there'll be challenges ahead; for all of us. But I also know that I can count on every one of you to stand together and meet them head on. We will survive, not because of me - but because of _us_."

"Hear, hear!" Someone bellows from the crowd, as everyone breaks into applause. Taylor lets it go for a few minutes, before raising his hands to call for silence, "Before I get my ass off this stage and the party can begin, I have one more announcement to make - which involves Mr Reynolds and Miss Shannon." He beckons, and the couple make their embarrassed way to the stage.

"I've welcomed newborns to our community a few times now, but this is the first time I've announced an engagement. Some of you may already know this - but if not, I'm proud to announce that Mark Reynolds and Maddy Shannon are officially engaged. Let me be the first to offer you my congratulations. You'll make a fine couple." He begins to clap, and the applause is now punctuated by cheers and whistles.

"Now," he calls out, briskly, "Get partying, and that's an order!"

* * *

Standing on the balcony of the Command Centre, Taylor watches the celebrations below with a real sense of contentment. People are dancing, Boylan's cider seems to be going down well, and no one will go short this winter. As his eyes sweep over the crowd, he spots Mark and Maddy, who are utterly absorbed in each other, while nearby Jim and Elisabeth are dancing. Josh and Skye are busy serving food and drinks, while a group of youngsters, under the supervision of one of the schoolteachers, bounce happily to the music, Zoe amongst them now that she is old enough to want to dance with her friends rather than a sibling. Across the way, Yseult is sitting alongside Malcolm on a bench, her head resting on his shoulder, while his arm is wrapped tightly about her. He snorts with mild amusement - he's seen the picture that finally knocked away his Science Officer's inhibitions, and he's relieved that they've finally got past their adolescent silliness. He wonders, idly, how long it'll be before he's announcing another engagement. From the indications below, he doesn't doubt that it'll happen sooner or later. Probably sooner.

For a moment, he feels almost as though she is standing beside him, sharing in his satisfaction, "You'd love it here now, Wash." He says, out loud, "I wish you were here to share it."

There's no answer. There never is.

The moment is bittersweet, but it cannot dent his optimism. They may well need to deal with the problem of the long-lost Phoenix soldiers in time - but they're miles away. Tired of being aloof, he heads back down to the party; the Phoenix problem can wait: tonight is for celebrating.

* * *

High up in a tree on the other side of the fence, however, another pair of eyes is watching. The owner of those eyes, settled carefully across a forked bough, is also keen to celebrate; though that lone individual's celebrations are for the success of an entirely different plan: one that needs only one more component to bring it about. Just one more step left - after two agonisingly long years…just _one_ \- in order to triumphantly bring the childish pipe dream that is Nathaniel Taylor's vision of Terra Nova to an end.


	10. Solstice

**PART TWO**

 **REVENGE - INTERRUPTED**

Chapter Ten

 _Solstice_

Skye sets down two large coffees, "There you go. Rocket fuel."

Taking one mug, Josh looks up at her, "It's been a long day; that was one hell of a party."

"Thats what you get when a rash of babies get born at once." Skye is grinning cheerfully, "No idea what persuaded so many people to start families all at the same time."

"Anything for entertainment, I guess."

With six children born to various couples around the colony in the last two months, the approaching solstice is likely to be a considerably larger celebration than usual, as several more are due by late December. Given the limited population of Terra Nova, the suggestion that Taylor made at the beginning of the year that having kids was now something of a patriotic duty, the number of women who visited Doctor Shannon to have their contraceptive injections reversed was quite startling, as was the speed with which a rash of pregnancies commenced.

"And, if you haven't noticed." Boylan plumps down on a nearby stool, a precious glass of golden liquor from his last butt of cider in his hand, "All the girls have the name Alicia lurking somewhere, and all the boys are cursed with Nathaniel."

"Apart from the girl that's been named Taylor." Skye adds, brightly.

"How the hell can you be so chipper?" Boylan complains, looking around at a bar that has only recently emptied of patrons, and the accompanying mess of plates, dishes, glasses and God-knows-what that needs to be cleared up and washed before they can seek their respective beds.

"I'm happy for everyone. Besides, the Commander's practically my dad, so I think I have the right enjoy the fact that everyone wants to name their kids after him." She sips at her coffee, still smiling, "Bask in the reflected glory."

Boylan rolls his eyes.

"C'mon people." Josh sighs, "This bar isn't going to clean itself."

* * *

With the end of the year approaching, the weather also seems to have decided that a party is in order, and the Head Meteorologist who stands before Taylor's desk looks rather worried, "The indications are that this is going to be at least a category four, Sir; we may need to consider activating our shelter evacuation protocol in case it goes up to five - or possibly even six."

"Six?" Taylor asks, concerned; on the scale that the Meteo-team have devised, four means 'severely damaging' while five means 'devastating'; but Malcolm regularly claims that they only added the category six because someone wanted to have a scale that included the word 'catastrophic', "Do you think that's likely?"

"We're sending up radiosondes every six hours, Commander." The nervous woman advises, "The indications are that we're facing one of the worst winter storms that this area has seen since we've been here. I've discussed this with my team, and with Malcolm, and he's agreed to authorise us, with your ratification, to issue appropriate warnings to take shelter should things deteriorate in the next forty eight hours, but he's also suggested that we consider taking steps to secure buildings and property immediately."

Taylor nods, "He would - and I agree with him. I'll ratify his authorisation, issue orders to the security teams to start work on getting things battened down, and I'll send out a general early warning. There'll be storms anyway, even if this one _doesn't_ end up being the humdinger you're predicting, so now seems as good a time as any to get prepped." He sighs, "Good work - keep monitoring the situation and update me on your readings from the radiosondes. I may not understand what the hell they mean, but if I need translations, I'll ask."

"Yes Commander." She gathers her plex and hastens out as Taylor snatches up his comm. unit, "Shannon, get to the Command Centre, stat."

Within three hours, the first warning has issued, and people are already gathering to volunteer their services to help clear public areas in preparation for the coming weather. Anything that is likely to be blown around is being fixed to the ground, or moved to somewhere that is, while the large population shelters are being stocked with appropriate supplies.

"Any updates?" Taylor asks Malcolm, as the senior staff gather to discuss progress.

"Not so far. The indications remain rather bad, I'm afraid. Whether Carol was right about hitting a category six remains to be seen - largely because we only created it as a bit of a joke. None of my weather team really believed that the weather could get that severe; though she's willing to stick her neck out and suggest it's going to hit category five." He looks at his plex, "I'm not a meteorologist, so I have no idea what half of these charts mean, but the ones that _do_ make sense suggest that this storm is moving quite quickly. It'll be over us and gone in about two days, or thereabouts - but while it's here, it's looking as though it'll be pretty damaging. She anticipates that we'll start feeling the first outriders by late tomorrow, so I'd suggest that everyone evacuate to the shelters by twenty-hundred hours tomorrow evening."

"I'll send staff out to make sure there are no stragglers." Jim adds, "If it's going to cause damage, then I'd rather make sure that no one tries to be a hero."

"My team has finished preparing at our end, and I've ordered everyone back up to the main compound for the duration." Yseult advises, "We can assist with anything else that needs doing before and after. I've ensured that our smelting equipment is both safely stowed and easy to get at, so we'll be ready to assist with any repairs or recasting of aluminium joists or connections if that's needed." She turns to Elisabeth, who picks up.

"I've assigned med-teams to each of the shelters, so that there'll be a basic emergency service to tide people over if there are any injuries. There's not a lot I can do to prep the main infirmary that hasn't already been built into the structure, so if repairs are needed, I'll advise. Otherwise, we're as ready as we can be."

"I've also made sure that there are spare generators on hand in case we lose power in the freezer units." Malcolm finishes, "The last thing we want is to lose our stock of frozen supplies."

"Anything else?" Taylor asks, pleased that everything seems to be largely covered. He is met with a combination of silence and shaking heads, "Good. Get to anything that still needs to be finished. We issue the evacuation order tomorrow at sixteen hundred, that'll give people four hours. Hopefully, when they emerge, things'll still be standing and everyone'll hate our guts for sending them to the shelters."

No one objects to the evacuation order. As always seems to be the case, the news has gone round with remarkable speed, and everyone knows that a bad storm is expected. Even as the winds begin to pick up, a rather weird sense of foreboding seems to have made its way through the population, and everyone seems quite relieved to be within the protection of thick, concrete walls. No one has gone to to the wrong shelter, and Jim's security teams found no one sitting in their home refusing to leave. While Yseult and Malcolm live in different residential areas of the colony, Taylor has taken pity on them, and assigned her to his designated shelter, so the pair sit together to wait out the bad weather; hoping, as everyone else is, that things will not be as bad as forecast. Having been talked through the last set of results from the final radiosonde that went up, however, Malcolm knows that it will.

* * *

Yseult is asleep, her head resting on his lap, as Malcolm is jolted awake from his rather uncomfortable slumber against the wall of the shelter by the sound of an almighty crash from outside. Blearily, he checks his watch to discover, to his disgust, that it's only two in the morning. While the roar of wind, and hammering of lashing rain, is largely dulled by the thick walls that protect everyone within the shelter, he knows that something large must've come down, and he dreads to think what it might be. If it's as large as it sounded, then it's going to take a hell of a lot of work to set right. Now that he is awake, however, he's almost certainly going to be on tenterhooks for another loud noise, so there's little chance of him getting back to sleep again - particularly as he's sitting up.

Like all his fellow evacuees, he has brought a small bag of those things that are most precious, though his is very small in comparison to others, as he has few possessions that he treasures that much. Apart from his personal plex, as opposed to his work one, he has no heirlooms, no items that he cannot bear to lose. But then, the one thing in his life these days that he would be most agonised to be without is currently asleep with her head resting on his lap. He has not seen what Yseult has in her bag, but he knows it will contain the other of the two swords she made, her photo of Niall, her personal plex, a small cuddly toy cat called Schmidt, and a slim packet of family photographs and letters that she hasn't digitised.

He tries very hard not to feel a sense of jealousy at the presence of that photo of her dead husband. Niall may be gone, but he is still, nonetheless, very present. The fact that he knows what she has brought with her, even without asking or sneaking a look, is evidence enough to him that their relationship is very solid and strong; but, nonetheless, there is still that long, long shadow - one that hovers behind him, and - if truth be told - seems to stand as an almost tangible barrier that blocks their way to the bedroom door. No matter how close they are, no matter how charged the atmosphere between them becomes when they are alone together, she seems - at the most intimate level - to be all but untouchable. People think it's quite sweet that she visits him regularly, but always leaves the same evening, not the following morning. Perhaps it is, but he longs for her to want to stay with him, aches to touch and explore every inch of her body; but he can't. Niall is still a constant presence, and she can't seem to let him go.

The sound of another violent crash pulls him out of his rather sad reverie, and now he is more concerned. If that's a large structure that's fallen, then God alone knows what else is being blown about out there. He can't see out, and he is loath to reach for his comm. unit in case Taylor or Jim are asleep. There is little point in calling them, as they are no more able to see out than he is.

A movement on his lap causes him to look down; the noise has also woken Yseult, who gradually sits up, "Was that something coming down?" she asks, in a low whisper. A lot of people have managed to sleep through it, though there is a low-level mumbling sound as others, who have also been woken, speculate nervously between themselves.

"I think so."

"That doesn't sound good." She mumbles, tiredly, "I dread to think how many joists we'll have to re-cast if it's something big."

Malcolm's plex beeps discreetly to indicate the arrival of a message, and he looks down, "At least we still have the comms. network." He indicates a message from Taylor, " _Hell of a crash by the sound of it. All well at your end?_ "

He sends a quick reply to the affirmative, before settling his arm around Yseult as she rests against him, "It's only twenty past two, I'm afraid."

"You could rest your head on _my_ lap for a bit if you like." She smiles, as he stifles a yawn.

"Believe me, I might just do that."

Another ping on Malcolm's plex awakens Yseult, who finds that she is still slumped against him, though he is also now slumped against her, the pair of them holding each other up against the wall. Unable to unlock the device, she prods him gently in the ribs, "Message for you, Doctor Wallace."

"What?" He emerges from sleep rather vaguely, looking about in mild confusion. For a moment, she is quite captivated at how ridiculously endearing he looks.

"Here." She hands him the plex. Pulling himself together, he reads the message, "It's Commander Taylor. He decided to see if the weather had died down; and it has. The storm was large, but it was moving pretty swiftly - it's largely passed over us. Actually, it was even faster than I was expecting it to be." He adds, almost as an aside, as though he is disappointed that the weather disregarded his scholarly prediction.

"Does he want you to join him?"

Malcolm nods, "I suspect it's not _quite_ as quiet as he's making it out to be - I'll have a word with our security detail on the way out; I think we need to keep everyone here for the time being. It's likely to still be pretty blowy out there - but the worst should be over."

"That depends on what you mean by 'worst'." Yseult sighs, "I'm thinking about the clear-up job it's left us with."

* * *

Taylor rubs at his forehead and sighs, "So, where are we?"

Jim checks through the reports on his plex, "So far, we've managed to repair the damage to people's homes, so at least people have roofs over their heads. Our storage facilities came through okay, and the Infirmary held up well. There's some damage to the laboratories, but I've got a team on that now. We only lost the large hall - that's pretty much totalled. We'll need to reconstruct entirely on that one - but we can manage without it for now."

"Anyone left in the infirmary?"

Elisabeth shakes her head, "We didn't have any significant injuries as a result of the storm itself; just accidents afterwards caused by exposed sharp metal and unstable structures coming down when people went to investigate the damage. I have two people left who were most severely injured, and they're both recovering well and should be discharged by the end of the week."

"What about out in the fields?"

"The Greenhouses are largely glassless shells, I'm afraid," Malcolm reports, "The polytunnels are also nothing more than plastic rags hanging onto their supports. There were no crops in the fields to be flattened, as everything's been harvested and gone into storage - but I'm not relishing telling Tom Boylan that we lost almost all of his apple trees. They were planted around the edge of the orchards largely to protect the main cropping species, and they did their job; but most of them came down in the process."

"I'll tell him." Taylor says, with mildly sadistic relish, "I want to see the look on his face when he finds out that another of his liquor schemes has gone to the wall - and he can't blame me for it."

"I'll see if we can set one of the furnaces aside to make new glass, Malcolm," Yseult offers, "We might have to try building something specific - but I'll see what Geoff can suggest." She smiles then, "I can't help with the plastic, I'm afraid. It's too modern."

"I've got miles of plastic sheeting." Malcolm shakes his head, "That's the one thing that I'm _not_ short of."

Taylor sits back, relieved. In the three weeks since the storm hit, the entire community has pulled together - again - to repair, mend, salvage or rebuild. The evacuation protocols have proved their worth once more; he learned very early on how violent the weather could become during the storm season, and he aims never to make the same mistake twice if he can avoid it. While a lot of the repair works are rather Rube Goldberg, given the speed at which they had to be effected, they're fixed for the winter, and can take some time to deal with the larger projects once the weather improves.

Yseult's comm unit suddenly beeps, and she fetches it out with a quick apology, "Go ahead, Mike."

" _Sorry to bother you Max - we need a medical team. Graham's been pinned down by a tree bough that fell on him. It's not looking very good - he's been here a while; we didn't know he was in trouble."_

She turns to see that Elisabeth is already on her feet, "I'll fetch Nurse Ogawa and a surgical med-pack. Tell him to meet us at your compound."

"Mike - Doctor Shannon's on her way. Meet her in the compound, okay? I'll be over as soon as I can." She looks across at Taylor, "Sorry, Commander, I need to go."

He nods, "You need to be with your people."

* * *

"How is he?" Malcolm asks, as Yseult picks at the dinner they are sharing, clearly lacking much appetite.

"Not good. We were lucky, though - Elisabeth was able to stabilise him and get him back to the infirmary, and she reckons he'll make a full recovery." She sighs, "We don't know how long he was there - but it could've been three hours. No one knew he was hurt."

"I'll see if I can re-rig a tag into some sort of emergency alarm for you lot to have. That compound is pretty isolated - if you've got something that can trigger an alert in the Command Centre, and show a beacon, then we can get help to you. It shouldn't just be the security staff that have that safety net."

"That would be really helpful." She looks up at him, "I'm sorry; I'm not very good company tonight."

"It's okay. I'd be the same if it was one of my team - even if they didn't notice it." He takes her hand, gently, and she smiles at him. He is tempted to ask if she'd like to stay the night; and is then equally shocked that he could be so mercenary. She's worried about one of her team and he's trying to find a way to persuade her into bed? What on earth is he _thinking_? Furious with himself for even considering taking advantage of her while she is so distracted, he shoves the rogue thought out of his head, "Do you want to check on him?"

"I'd like to. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not." He rises to see her out, and wishes more than anything that he could find the nerve to ask her to stay.

* * *

The term 'winter' is something of a misleading description in a land where frost is largely nonexistent, but still people refer to it as such - largely out of convention rather than any real need to do so. Naturally, for those who originated in the southern hemisphere, the concept of referring to December as 'winter' is still rather odd, but it's an interesting novelty when one is used to celebrating Christmas in the summer.

The repairs from the storm are complete, and Yseult is relieved that Graham is sufficiently recovered to return home to his wife and daughter. Other than the unenviable task of rebuilding their assembly hall in the spring, the wreckage of the late autumn storm has been cleared, and the weather has since appeared to be trying to make it up to them for being so vicious.

Once again, there are no alcoholic beverages available to party with at Tom Boylan's bar, but he has still taken it over for the day. Families get together on Solstice Day, to enjoy a celebration meal, exchange gifts if they wish to and annoy the hell out of each other for the rest of the afternoon, just like they did when they celebrated Christmas back in the future. There is, however, a significant proportion of people in Terra Nova who are less fortunate, and it is for their benefit that he has thrown open the doors of his eponymous bar to provide a place where they, too, can enjoy a celebration meal, exchange gifts if they wish to, and annoy the hell out of each other for the rest of the afternoon.

Those who are celebrating privately are not to be spared the requirement to get outside and circulate with their neighbours, as a small, determined committee of stallholders spent the previous evening setting up the marketplace for an evening party to which all are invited. That it is, effectively, a Taylor-sanctioned three-line-whip has not been lost on the populace. Not that anyone minds: any excuse to whoop it up.

As they have done for the last two years, Jim and Elisabeth have invited Mark to join them at their festive table. While they are still engaged, rather than married, he is such a fixture that they already regard him as part of the family. The eventual point where a ring goes on the finger is merely a 'rubber stamp' exercise. Between them, Elisabeth and Maddy have set out a magnificent spread, while Jim, being the Patriarch, is obliged to carve what is optimistically referred to as a 'saddle' of Gallusaur, and Josh mixes yet more of the vivid fruit concoctions for which he seems now to be rather famous. As Zoe considers Mark to be another brother already, she has attached herself to him for the duration, and the pair have been engaged in a game on her plex to keep her out of the way of the busy adults.

Dinner served, Jim seats himself at the head of the table, and tries to recall the name of Tiny Tim's father as he does so. _Crotchet_ … _Scratchet_ , or something… "Happy solstice." He says, after a short bout of failing to remember, and everyone tucks in.

A short walk away, in the Tate household, Skye and her mother are also sitting down to dinner, with her surrogate father also present. It took her rather less persuasion than she expected to get Taylor to join them, but he has always been fond of her, and once he had realised the reason for her betrayal when she was obliged to spy for Mira, forgiveness had swiftly followed. Rather than turn up at Boylan's, which would just annoy the patrons, he is rather pleased to be with a family. It's on occasions like this that he is most despondent that the one person he would most like to spend the time with is not here any more. He has, naturally, visited Wash - as he always does on high days and holidays - but it's nice to sit down to a hot, home-cooked meal with a family. Even if it is not, strictly speaking, his family.

Malcolm, being both an appalling cook and utterly incapable of entering Boylan's bar even if a herd of wild horses had been specially hired to drag him there, has instead been most relieved to receive an invitation from Yseult to dine with her. He couldn't have faced the prospect of hosting her - as no stalls are open, so he couldn't hope to find someone to provide him with a meal to reheat. Instead, he runs the gauntlet of Niall's picture, unaware that it is nowhere near as prominent as it once was, and the pair sit down to a simple dinner together. Having spent every Solstice alone since he arrived in the Colony, to have company this time around is not so much a novelty as a brutal reminder to him just how few friends he really has; and he wonders whether his assumed contentment at having the time to himself was really a smokescreen to cover the crushing loneliness of having no one to share it with. Rather than dwell on the matter, however, he instead allows Yseult to regale him with stories of the ridiculous things she and her friends have done in previous years, as she was one of those who spent their time at Boylan's rather than on their own.

With everyone in their houses, the entire colony seems almost dead, but for those who are carousing, albeit in a muted fashion thanks to the lack of any really worthwhile alcohol, at Boylan's. The weather is benign, and a few people are out for a post-prandial constitutional, as the routine requirement for all Winter Festival celebrants to attempt to use food to convert their abdomens into beach-balls has travelled to the Cretaceous along with the colonists.

By the evening, however, those who have set up the party are not disappointed at the turnout. Being the only available entertainment, most people are keen to escape the confines of their houses, and the marketplace is suitably crowded. Dragooned into attending, Taylor has escaped to his safety zone - and overlooks the activity from his balcony with an almost paternal air.

"Bet you're glad to be one of the partygoers this time around." Jim says to his son, as he is not obliged to oversee the food and drink, thanks to the stallholders who are running the event, "Maybe you'll get up the nerve to ask Skye to dance."

" _Dad_." Josh's plaint is the traditional response of all young people to an irritating comment by their father, though, truth be told, that _is_ his intention.

Yseult finds Mike, Pete and Geoff holding court near the grill, "What a surprise. I thought, 'I'll look for a food source; they're bound to be there'. And here you are."

"Naturally." Mike scoffs, loftily, "So, where's Captain Khaki, then?"

"Is that your final choice for nickname?" she laughs, "He's chatting to some of his colleagues. He'll be over in a few minutes."

"Jeez, you've got no taste, Max."

"Of course I haven't. I laugh at your jokes, don't I?" she smiles at him, then turns to Pete, "Has Tom recovered from the shock of losing the trees?"

Pete grins, "Mostly - we've still got a couple standing and they're surprisingly good croppers, so it's not entirely the end of his universe. I've sweet-talked one of the aeroponics team into letting us cultivate some seedlings and try to see if we can recreate a proper Dabinett apple. I think it'll work better than the one that we've got."

"Goodness, at this rate, you'll be laying down barrels of Calvados."

" _Calvados_?" Pete looks jokingly scandalised, "Why on earth would I waste good cider in a still?"

The folk band strikes up nearby, and people all around are soon dancing. Skye has, to Josh's surprise, agreed to dance with him, though to any who see them, the rather triumphant look on her face suggests that she's been angling for that from the off. As always, Mark and Maddy appear practically glued to one another, while Elisabeth has stood aside to allow her husband to be led in something approximating a dance by Zoe.

"Come on, Max." Mike grins, "At least have a bit of a bop until Captain Khaki shows up."

"I don't need to." She laughs, seeing Malcolm emerge from the crowd, "He's turned up. But thanks." She turns to greet him, and then startles the hell out of him by all but yanking him into the dancing throng.

"I'll dance with you, darling." Pete grins at Mike as they watch the pair pull close together, almost oblivious to everyone about them.

"Only if it's ballroom," Mike snaps back, "And you're the woman."

* * *

Taylor looks down the stairs to see Elisabeth coming up, "Happy Solstice, Elisabeth."

"And you, Commander. Aren't you going to join in?"

He shakes his head, "I dance like a female Carno trying not to tread on her eggs. I prefer to watch others do it better."

"What is it?" she asks, looking at him rather more piercingly.

He shrugs, "Probably nothing. Just a gut feeling."

Her prompt that he continue is merely a slight turn of the head and a squint.

"We've been damn lucky these last two years." He says, eventually, "And I'm grateful that we have. But…" He sighs the sigh of a man who is used to things going wrong at the drop of a hat, "Somehow, my gut tells me it's not going to last."

"Ups and downs are part of life, Nathaniel. We'll have good luck, and we'll have bad luck - that's just the way things are."

"We got soldiers in the Badlands, Elisabeth; and they're running out of options. If they run out of many more, then we'll be the only option they've got left."

"Then we'll face it down. They're not the ones with the power this time. We are, aren't we?"

"Perhaps." Taylor concedes, "But I'm not one to ignore my gut. I think I'll sit down with your husband after the holiday and think about how we're going to deal with those soldiers." He turns to her, "But not tonight. Wherever they are, they're not here - and that's what matters. You get on down there and enjoy yourself."

She smiles at him, and gives him a peck on the cheek, "I will. Enjoy your evening - even if you're just watching us."

"It's all the entertainment I need."

He watches as she returns to the party, and resumes the brooding that she noticed when she joined him. Something's coming. He can feel it in his gut.


	11. Contrition

**Author's Note:** A quick stop to throw in some long overdue thanks to my readers. Special shout out to Leona2016 for your wonderful reviews of my scribblings - I hugely appreciate your support, and for those who are following the story - again, I really appreciate your support, too. It's great to know that people are enjoying 'the story what I wrote'.

Having avoided the need for a fire extinguisher two chapters ago (thank you for not flaming me!), just a quick pointer that I've referred back to and tweaked an incident that occurred in _Displaced_ in this chapter as it drives the interaction between the characters and some developments in the tale. Rather than merely plagiarise it, I hope that people won't mind its recurrence here in a slightly altered context. Those who've read _Displaced_ (and if you haven't, do - it's fab, _and_ it has Wash in it) will recognise it.

And on we go...as always, I own nothing except the contents of my imagination...

* * *

Chapter Eleven

 _Contrition_

Jim bounds into the Command Centre, his expression concerned, "What's up?" The call from Taylor demanding that he return from his morning routine patrol - which normally consists largely of just walking around with intent - was sharp and unexpected.

Taylor looks up from his plex, and indicates Guzman standing beside him, "They're back."

"We're sure?"

Guzman nods, "There are repairs under way - in a manner of speaking. The storm brought a lot down, and that's what's made them noticeable. I think they've been there since before the Solstice - but we couldn't tell. They're damn good at hiding themselves."

Jim exchanges a worried glance with Taylor; Mira's returned, and they didn't notice. God, she's good, "How bad did it look?" He asked.

"Pretty bad. From what we could see, the damage is very heavy. They've lost a lot of structures up in the canopy - they're so well hidden up there that we missed them. For all we know, they could have been there since the harvest; but we've got no way to know."

"That suggests that Mira knew we'd be watching for them." He is not sure now whether he should've pushed harder to install some cameras. At least they would've known she was back if cameras went offline, "They haven't come here, though. Anything you could see that would indicate why that might be?"

Guzman shakes his head, "Nothing. They've lost the backing of their employers, so perhaps they're too short of weapons to try to take us on. If they _have_ abandoned the Phoenix soldiers, then they'll be pretty much on their own. We've got no convoys for them to raid anymore, all our resources are self-contained. We could stay in here almost indefinitely."

"Besides," Taylor interjects, "She knows I'll come looking, and I'll take 'em down tree by tree."

Jim is not sure if he is serious, so he says nothing.

Taylor sits back with a sigh, "Looks like the decision's been taken out of our hands, Shannon. Time to double up security?"

"I think so." He agrees, a little tiredly. He'd only just got the rosters completed. Now he has to start them all over again.

* * *

Despite a lack of an official announcement that the Sixers are back in the area, everyone seems to know. Probably thanks to the additional guards at the gates. Add to that the general efficiency of the Terra Nova grapevine, and the news couldn't possibly stay quiet for long.

Naturally, no one knows exactly _why_ they're back - as few are aware of the real depth of the situation in the Badlands. That Mira has come back suggests to all who are 'in the know', and to plenty more who aren't, that the supposedly strong partnership between their enemies has irretrievably broken down. She's had enough, and has left her erstwhile allies to sink or swim. Figuratively speaking.

Guzman's reports are regular, and surprisingly comprehensive given the normally secretive nature of the group. From observations, it's becoming clear that they are in dire straits. Their canopy network has been all but destroyed, most of their structures are roofless, and the number of injuries caused by falling debris is extensive. It is certainly not lost on Guzman that he can actually _see_ all of this. If she were at her fullest strength and resources, Mira would never, ever be so careless.

"Why hasn't she come?" Taylor muses, mostly rhetorically, as he and Jim review the latest report, "It looks to me like they're on the point of falling apart, but she hasn't appeared at the gates yet."

"Let's face it, Taylor," Jim snorts, "she'd rather eat slasher dung than come grovelling to you. It's going to take a lot of adversity to drive her out here."

"She's still pretty quiet." Taylor adds, "No raids on our patrols, no attempts to break in through the fence. Either she's too busy trying to keep house and home together, or she's trying to avoid antagonising us; keeping us sweet, I guess."

"And if she is?"

"Trust me. It's not working."

Jim shrugs, and heads back downstairs to resume his daily wandering about that serves as a form of security patrol. The market is busy, with the stored vegetables proving to be very popular; though there is little in the way of non-vegetable protein. He can only imagine that everyone else is as sick of beancurd as he is. There are only so many ways that Elisabeth has found to make it palatable. Or at least _mostly_ palatable.

Work has begun on rebuilding their large hall; something that went up after the occupation as a place to hold functions and events in bad weather. The crews are busy, as are several metalworkers, including Yseult's associate whose name that Jim always seems to need several minutes to remember. A massive man, Mike seems to tower over most of his fellow workers, but Jim supposes that his life as an experimental blacksmith has made him that way. Either that or his father was an elephant.

"Where's your boss?" he asks cheerfully, as Mike manhandles a recently cast aluminium joint with a fearsome pair of iron tongs.

"Not sure at the moment," he answers, concentrating on the building part, "I think she said she was going to see if Graham was ready to come back to work. He's nearly mended now. Besides, this sort of thing is too heavy for her - she's pretty strong, but not _that_ strong."

Jim stares at Mike's bulging biceps, and shudders slightly. The amount of work to get them like _that_ must be astonishing; the man must be the strongest human being in the colony, "Remind me not to organise an iron man contest."

"No point, Deputy." Mike grins, his lifting done, "Who'd win it over me?"

Leaving the crews to their work, Jim resumes his patrol. His journey these days takes him out to the fence line, and he tends to follow it as far as he can - though he's upped the overall security patrols - and he never knows for sure what he'll find. Yesterday, he saw some weird bird thingy…

"Jesus!" He can't help his profanity as he comes across Malcolm and Yseult, having sneaked behind the stack of emergency generators outside the laboratories. The pair almost leap apart, startled and not a little embarrassed to have been caught snogging like a pair of randy teenagers. Thank God that's all that they were doing, "Er…just on patrol. Don't mind me." He is not sure if he is even more embarrassed than they are. Yseult, he could see doing something like this - but _Malcolm_? God, no. The man has a stick so far up his ass he'd never be caught dead doing something so _not_ stick-up-the-ass uptight.

Or so Jim thought. At least the formerly uptight scientist has the grace to have gone a magnificent shade of red. But then, Jim can feel his own cheeks burning, and he hastens away with all speed. What was that Taylor said about a notebook and scorecards? But then, an encounter like that would be, to him, at least, off the _charts_.

"Taylor," He says, cheerfully as he returns to the Command Centre, "You are not gonna _believe_ what I saw Malcolm doi…" his voice trails off at the sight of an entirely unexpected person in the room.

She is as tall and statuesque as he remembers; though her garments are rather more battered and mended than they had been the last time he saw her - and there are no longer feathers in her braids. Mira's eyes are hostile; but otherwise she seems to show no outward ill intent. But then; she can't afford to.

"What - no escort?" he asks, after a few moments' awkward silence.

She ignores him, turning back to Taylor, whose own hostility is _entirely_ visible, "That's my offer. Intelligence, survival skills and extra hands, in exchange for a return to the Colony."

"Excuse me?" Jim asks, having missed the initial discussions.

Taylor glares at her, "You don't have much that we don't already know, we have a whole department of people who are capable of taking us low-tech, and I have plenty of pairs of hands. What makes you think you have anything we need?"

She returns his glare, but then scowls, "That storm in the autumn took out most of our structures, and we've already lost people because they can't get up into the trees. I'm not interested in playing you off against Hooper and his soldiers - they're pretty much dead in the water now that they've lost us. I just want to keep my people safe." She pauses, clearly about to divulge a highly unpalatable statement, "And I haven't got the capacity to do it anymore."

"Tell me what you know about the Phoenix encampment, and I'll consider it."

"Not a chance in hell. You get what I know when we're allowed back in. Not before." She counters.

They stare each other down for several minutes, before Taylor finally speaks; "I'll take your offer to my senior team. If they agree, you're in. If not, you're out. Take it or leave it."

Her eyes angry, but with no alternative, Mira nods curtly, "I'll await your communication."

"You do that."

* * *

Taylor sits quietly as three pairs of eyes regard him with varying degrees of emotion, "That's her offer. Come back to the Colony in exchange for intel about the Phoenix soldiers, their survival expertise and their genetic material. No prejudice, no fine print." There is no disguising his distaste.

"I can't help wondering if it's something we should consider." Elisabeth ventures, after a considerable pause, "Whether or not we need the intelligence, or their survival abilities, the one thing that we could do with more than anything else is more genetic diversity in the Colony. There are around a thousand of us - and no matter how you look at it - our overall diversity isn't good enough to ensure our long-term survival without adding new genes. The genetic diversity of humans is startlingly limited - and even though the catastrophic bottleneck theory's long been discredited, there's evidence that humanity endured an overall long-term bottleneck that reduced the diversity of _Homo Sapiens_ as a species - but even the most conservative of estimates of the lowest degree of population shrinkage suggested double the number of people we have in Terra Nova. If there aren't that many of us to begin with, we're in danger of experiencing pedigree collapse sooner or later. The more genetic variety we have, the better our chances of survival."

"Are you serious?" Malcolm asks, sharply, "Why would we want them back after what they did?"

"Completely, Malcolm." Elisabeth doesn't rise to it, "Can we afford to hold grudges in a world where we're the only population, and the only increase is going to come from within that single population?"

"Elisabeth has a point." Yseult adds, "Wouldn't we be cutting off our noses to spite our faces if we refuse to let them come back? They need us far more than we need them, I get that - but at the same time, I could always put them to work with my teams. They may have developed some techniques that would be of use to us."

"You know my views." Taylor sighs, "They were sent here by the people who wanted to destroy everything that we'd built - everything that we wanted to get right this time around. That's something that I would find it hard to get past. No matter what they claim they can offer, it's not something that we can't do without."

"I'd have to disagree on that score, Commander." Elisabeth shakes her head, "I still think that the diversity issue is too important to ignore. I don't know how many of them are left, but even if there are only thirty of them, that's still something to add to our gene pool. If we can't deal with the concept of welcoming them back, then perhaps it's more palatable to view them as a commodity for our long-term benefit."

"No." Malcolm's tone is surprisingly vehement, "I can't accept that. They broke away from us, and then they came in and tried to take everything away from us. How are thirty individuals going to prevent pedigree collapse? Either way, it'll happen or it won't. As long as we're careful over consanguinity, why should they be of any use to us?"

"You'd leave them out there to die?" Yseult asks, shocked.

"They'd've done exactly the same thing to us." He snaps back, "They _did_ it. You weren't in the Compound - you have _no_ idea what it was like."

"Easy, Malcolm." Jim intervenes. So far, he has said nothing. His own feelings are somewhat ambivalent: he can see Taylor's reasons for refusing the return of the Sixers, but he can also see the validity of Elisabeth's argument. While he doesn't know exactly what 'pedigree collapse' is, he can guess. Like it or not, they could use the Sixers; though he thought Malcolm would be more level-headed about the whole thing.

"No, Jim." Malcolm's expression is strained, "People _died_ \- good people who didn't to anything to deserve it. All Mira and her crew wanted was to take everything away from us; and they made people suffer over it. Decent people - remember what Lucas did to you? What he did to…"

"I remember." Jim interrupts. The last thing he wants is to raise the spectre of Alicia's murder. Not in front of Taylor. Besides, she sacrificed herself so that he and his family could escape - he hasn't forgotten; how could he possibly forget?

"We can't see things in black and white, Malcolm," Yseult tries again, "I wish that it were that simple - and I know that we were confined to our end of the colony, so we weren't as badly affected as you were. But, can we really afford to turn our backs on any offer of assistance to keep ourselves alive?"

"And have them stab us in the backs? You have no idea; _no_ idea at _all_ what they did!" he is suddenly astonishingly angry - no not just angry - something else…

"I know that," her expression is worried, her tone placatory, "they kept us away because they didn't see any point in bothering with us. We didn't lose anyone, and we didn't have the opportunity to help with the resistance. I _know_ that - but if we live in the past, then how are we supposed to be ready for the future?"

"Maybe because the past won't leave you alone!" he shouts, standing up so suddenly that his chair falls back behind him with a shocking clatter, "Forget it, Max. You have no idea at all what we went through - and if you want the people who hurt us to come back, then be my guest!" He turns and stalks out of the Command Centre, leaving her staring after him in distressed shock, while everyone else is merely stares.

"That went well." Jim mutters, mostly to himself.

* * *

"I've hurt him, Elisabeth," Yseult weeps, "Oh God, I've really hurt him - what if he doesn't want to speak to me? I can't lose him - not now…I love him too much for that…"

Sitting with her arm about her colleague, Elisabeth tries to think of something she can say that will console her, "Give him some time to calm down, Max. I've never seen him lose his temper like that before - but I don't think it was because of you. I think there's something he hasn't told us - but I couldn't begin to guess what it might be. I was assuming he was angry because they killed Steve McCormick in front of him. That was the only reason he agreed to repair the broken terminus."

They are alone in the Command Centre; Taylor has exercised his executive veto, and thus the Sixers are not to return - at least, not immediately - but, like many men unexpectedly confronted by female tears, he has considered discretion to be the better part of valour. Jim, on the other hand, has gone in search of Malcolm.

"You really do love him, don't you?" Elisabeth adds, quietly.

Yseult nods, "More than I thought I could ever love anyone again after Niall died. I always believed that there was only one person out there for you - and that I'd found him. When I lost him, I thought my world had ended - but it didn't. I just assumed that my soulmate was gone and that I would just have to learn to live without him. Then I met Malcolm. I don't really believe in soulmates anymore, but…I never thought I'd feel that sense of closeness that I had with Niall ever again. And then I did."

"I know what you mean." Elisabeth smiles, "About that sense of closeness. I have that exact same thing with Jim." She pauses, then continues, "Actually, now I come to think about it, I didn't have it with Malcolm."

"You?"

She nods, "I dated him for a year when we were at Oxford. I think it was a meeting of minds more than anything else - we were both dreadfully brainy - but that was all we really had in common. He'd decided from the start that he wasn't going to start a family - because he didn't see any point. I couldn't accept that all hope was lost - and that uncovered a whole seam of incompatibility. I called it off in the end, though that was mainly because I'd decided to switch from Pharmacology to medicine, and I knew we were both working too hard to keep a rather redundant relationship going. I transferred to St Thomas's in London, then I went on to Chicago to finish my training at Northwestern. That's where I found Jim."

"I heard somewhere that Malcolm recruited you because he wanted to try again." Yseult ventures, nervously. She really doesn't want to believe that.

"He certainly recruited me - though I'm not sure he really believed he had a chance with me. I think it was probably some silly romantic dream he had, but mostly it was offering me a new life, and recruiting the best trauma surgeon he could think of; I had quite a reputation, you know. He knew that Jim was in prison - but he didn't know about Zoe, so perhaps he thought that it would be a new start for me and our children as much as some ridiculous attempt to persuade me to take up with him again. Jim's arrival squelched that before it even had a chance to begin. Besides, he dotes on you, so there's no risk of him trying anything with me ever again."

"And I've destroyed it." She whispers, and starts to cry again, "God, I'm sorry," she hiccups, "I'm not normally such a limp biscuit."

"Welcome to the heartache of your first major row with your significant other. It's been a long time since your last one, so you've forgotten what it's like." Elisabeth sympathises, "I think I was much the same when I had mine with Jim. Believe me, once he's calmed down, I have no doubt that Malcolm will feel a complete idiot, and he'll come grovelling back."

"I can't lose him, Elisabeth. I can't - I couldn't go through that again."

"Come on, Max. Let's go and find him. I think you need to be saying this to him, rather than to me. Don't you?"

* * *

Not knowing Malcolm's routine, Jim has no idea where he might have gone, and takes something of a punt in seeking him out behind the generator stack.

"Wow. That was quite a show." He says, standing in front of Malcolm, who is sitting on an upturned crate, his elbows on his knees and his head down as he stares at the grass between his boots.

"She wasn't to know." Malcolm admits, very quietly, "God - I gave her hell and it wasn't even her fault."

"I didn't realise that McCormick's death still played on your mind."

"It wasn't that."

"Pardon?" Jim stares, confused. If his hatred for the Sixers is not thanks to McCormick's murder, then what was it?

"After…" he clears his throat, and tries again, "After you left the colony, and Lucas killed Lieutenant Washington, because she wouldn't tell him where Commander Taylor had gone, he started looking for people who might. His first port of call was the Senior staff - and I was the only one left."

Jim narrows his eyes - even Lucas wouldn't have been so dumb as to shoot the only person who could mend his broken apparatus…

"He couldn't have me shot, but he was convinced I knew where Taylor was - that you'd told me, or Washington had, because I was the only member of the senior staff left in the compound. So he left me with two of Mira's men and told them to get the information out of me. His only demand was that I had to be able to continue working on the terminus once they'd got it." He stares at the grass, "They sat me in a chair, fixed me to it with cable ties and set to work on me with one of those shock prods. I think it took them about two hours to accept that I didn't know where you all were: I didn't find out until after I'd finished repairing the terminus. Skye told me so I'd know where to go once I'd blown it up."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Jim asks, aghast. How could anyone not have noticed that Malcolm had been tortured?

He shrugs, "My clothes weren't scorched - they opened my shirt and used the prod on my chest and back. When they'd left me, I just sat for a bit to get myself back together again, pulled the shirt back over my shoulders, refastened it and went back to work on the terminus. It wasn't that hard to ignore the pain - even after I had a coat on. The burns weren't that bad."

"But you didn't _tell_ anyone. Why not? Elisabeth could've given you something for the pain. She used derma-spray on my burns - she could've done the same for you."

"What was the point?" Malcolm asks, looking up at Jim with a shockingly bitter expression, "After what Lucas did to you, and to Josh? After Washington gave her _life_? What was that in comparison? Besides - D'you think I don't know what people think of me? If I _had_ told anyone, who would've even cared?" Suddenly his eyes are brimming, "Why do you think I was hanging around you lot once it was over? I didn't have anyone else to be with - and I just needed to feel that I wasn't completely isolated, even if all I could do was lurk nearby and look like some pathetic hanger-on! Have you any idea - _any_ idea at all - what it's like to be surrounded by people and still be completely alone because they all want to be with other people more than they want to be with you? The only person I've come across in the _entire_ time I've lived in this blasted Colony who would've given a damn about what I went through is Max - and now I've bloody driven her away!"

"No you haven't…" Jim begins.

"I love her, Jim." Malcolm's voice is wavering in distress now, "I really love her - and I gave her hell. What am I going to do if she won't have me back?"

"I…er…" Jim falters. He's never seen Malcolm like this before, and has no idea how to deal with it. To his mind, this is the man who tried to leave him stuck in the future so that he could have another try with his ex-girlfriend; and he's never really been able to get past that. He is hardly a suitable confidante: hell, he doesn't even _like_ Malcolm all that much…

Cross with himself for his cowardice, he pulls himself together, "Look; sitting here isn't going to answer that question. You need to find her, and talk to her. When I left to look for you, she was in floods of tears - probably because she's thinking something not that different from you." He pauses, "If it's any help, Taylor decided that we're saying 'no' to Mira."

"I don't care about the bloody Sixers, Jim. I just need to know I haven't wrecked it with Max."

"She's the only person who can answer that question, Malcolm. I haven't got ESP. Go home: I'll tell Elisabeth to send Max there. You're going to have to resolve this like grownups."

He watches as Malcolm walks away. He's never seen the Science Officer in such a vulnerable state; nor has he realised just how aware Malcolm is that people regard him in a similar fashion to the local insect life - something they could do without, but tolerate because it's too much bother to do otherwise. Suddenly, he feels very guilty. If Malcolm and Max resolve their idiotic spat, then perhaps he and Elisabeth should attempt to socialise with them. Perhaps he won't be quite so irritating if she's there to dilute him.

* * *

Nervous, Yseult stands at Malcolm's front door and tries to find the gumption to knock. All she knows is that Jim has told Malcolm to go home, and the Shannons have, collectively, ordered her to go and see him. They're right, of course. No one can resolve an argument but the two people who have argued.

Squaring her shoulders she raises her hand to knock, only for the door to open.

"I'm sorry," she begins, rather desperately, "I had no idea that I'd hurt you - I'm so, _so_ …"

"Never mind that; just come here." Malcolm reaches out and enfolds her in his arms, pulling her into the house and booting the door shut behind him. For a while, they stand like that - clinging to one another as though they never intend to let go again.

"I'm the one who owes apologies." He says, eventually, sitting her down on a sofa, "I took out a lot of anger on you for something that wasn't even your fault. I let my feelings get in the way of my objectivity, and you got caught in the crossfire."

"Perhaps - but I should've been more aware of your feelings."

"Not if you didn't know about them."

She looks at him, bemused. He sits beside her, and she leans against him while he entwines the fingers of her right hand with his, "There's something I haven't told you. Something I never told anyone until about half an hour ago when I more-or-less shouted it at Jim."

She looks up at him, and sees he has turned very pale, "Someone hurt you, didn't they?"

He nods, "Two of Mira's men. After the Shannons escaped the compound, and Lucas Taylor killed Alicia Washington, they wanted to find out where Commander Taylor was hiding out. I was the only senior staff member left, so he assumed I would've been told. I hadn't been - but that didn't matter. The only restriction he placed on them was to leave me fit to work after I'd told them what he wanted to know, so they tortured me with a shock prod for two hours before they finally accepted I didn't know anything."

Her grip on his hand tightens, and he continues, painfully, "There wasn't anyone else in the labs; just them, and me. I was terrified - absolutely _terrified_ \- because I had no idea what they were going to do to me, and they covered my eyes, so I couldn't see what they were doing. Once they'd gone, I raided the medkit in the lab, and then made myself get back to work. I never told anyone; while I was working to sabotage the terminus I had something else to concentrate on, so I managed not to think about it. By the time I'd rejoined the other exiles, there didn't seem to be any point in mentioning it. The burns were under my clothes, so no one saw them; and I hid the pain. After what they'd done to other people, I assumed that everyone would think I was just angling for sympathy if I said anything. I have no illusions as to how people in the Colony see me: I used to be too obnoxious to notice it - but then I grew up."

"I don't see you like that." Yseult whispers, almost tearfully, "I wish I could take it back - all of it. If I'd known what they did to you…"

He looks up at her, and a lone tear escapes from his brimming eyes, "No, Max. You're the one who's right - not me. We can't think with our feelings these days. As long as I don't see the two of them, and I have you, then I can let it go."

"That's still not fair, Malcolm."

"Who said life was fair? If life was fair, then I wouldn't have lost my father at the age of ten. I'd still be Scottish; but I'd also probably not be here, and I certainly wouldn't be with you. All things being equal, I know which I'd prefer." He smudges at his damp eyes with the back of his free hand, then fixes his gaze upon her, "God, I love you, Max; you can't begin to know how lonely I was until I met you. I pretended to myself that I liked to be alone because it left me free to work - I even believed it for a while." He frees his other hand from hers and lifts her chin to claim a kiss.

As they break apart, she looks up at him, her eyes fixed upon his, "Make love to me."

He looks at her, startled at the suddenness of her request, "Are you sure?"

"More sure than I've ever been of anything in my life." She whispers, claiming his lips with hers as he gently lays her down on the couch.


	12. Crash

I love the weekend - more time to upload more stuff!

* * *

Chapter Twelve

 _Crash_

Yseult opens her eyes, and briefly frowns at the unfamiliar ceiling, then smiles and turns to her right to see Malcolm is still sleeping. She hadn't realised until the previous evening just how much she missed that moment of fierce desire, and the almost furious determination to assuage it: the scattering of garments about the carpet that surrounds the bed an untidy testament to the urgency of their passion. Rather a surprise after the altogether more cliché'd romantic start on the couch.

He breathes deeply and evenly, as one would when asleep, and she watches him, taking in the rediscovery of an intimacy that she thought she would never experience again. He has, she notes, rather understated how much the two Sixers injured him, however: superficial burns don't leave the mild scarring that she can see on his bare shoulder, or its fellow marks that adorn his back and chest, hidden now under the covers. They would've hurt like hell - and still he covered them up? What must it have been like to believe - truly believe - that people wouldn't have cared if he'd told them he was injured? They would've cared; she's sure of that; but for him to think that they wouldn't…

Well, _that's_ never going to happen again. Not if she's around to make sure it doesn't.

He shifts slightly, and opens his eyes, which widen for a second; briefly startled to see that he hasn't woken alone.

"Good morning." She smiles at him.

"It certainly is now." He returns her smile, "How did you sleep?"

"After what we got up to last night? Like the proverbial log." She advises him, rather impudently, then smiles a bit stupidly as he kisses her on the nose.

"Allow me to be irredeemably British and put the kettle on." He jokes, fumbling out from the bed for something to wear.

" _Now_ you're being coy?"

"Hey: British. Remember?"

She sits on the couch in a borrowed robe, nursing a cup of coffee while Malcolm showers. She considered offering to join him, but she wonders if he's also still a bit too British - as he puts it - to be comfortable with her doing so. Everything in the house is unfamiliar; nothing where she expects to find it, few ornaments or possessions of any significance - it seems as though the residence is merely being borrowed, and the occupant is not permitted to personalise it. The whole place could do with the addition of some of her junk: that startlingly ugly canaanite fertility goddess that Opa found in the Levant, for starters. Malcolm would _hate_ it. She snorts with mild amusement into her coffee; but the thought sticks. She's spent one night with him, and she's already thinking of moving in? How ridiculous…

As he emerges from the bedroom, his hair still slightly damp, Yseult remembers Mike's joke about his hanging upside down to get his hair to stick up - but it seems that it does it quite by itself, as even now the front of it has tufted up somewhat. Fetching a coffee for himself, he joins her, "Do you want to shower?"

She shakes her head, "I'll wait until I get home, I've got nothing fresh to wear here."

"We'll have to rectify that." He muses, "It seems a bit mean to have you spend the night here only to kick you out in the morning to find clean clothes."

"I'll bring a bag next time." She says, accepting a kiss from him. For a moment, she is highly tempted to shrug out of the robe and engage Malcolm in additional improprieties; but it is, alas, a workday and she has to a furnace to light.

* * *

Maddy checks her latest results, and sighs with frustration. So _close_ …but not close enough: there is one compound in that scorpion's venom that just refuses to be broken down by anything she throws at it. They can slow down the progress of the venom, but not stop it. If she's being optimistic, she's potentially bought a victim another half hour or so to be helped, but they still need to go for life support to keep them alive while the poison is metabolised.

She looks about for her supervisor, and is not overly surprised to see him at work in the small office that everyone now refers to as 'the lock up' thanks to its venomous occupant. He has been obliged to refuse several requests to commence new projects as the year has progressed, and it's far easier for him to retreat to a room people don't like to enter than deal with yet more loaded communications about favouritism for those whose projects have been approved. Maddy had no idea that her fellow scientists could be so childish; but then, her project is too important to warrant cancellation.

Watching through the window, she shudders. He seems blissfully unaware that the little arachnid is all but pacing back and forth across the front of the vivarium. To Maddy, it's as though the scorpion is watching him, keen to escape its confines and make him pay for grasping its tail and jabbing it with a needle. He's been regularly feeding it cockroaches, which it seems to relish, but bribery is making no difference. Limited though its intelligence is, to Maddy's rather credulous eyes it still seems to have forged a determination to attack him in revenge for his behaviour towards it. She's probably imagining it; but nonetheless, she can't set aside the notion that the creature is plotting some form of dire retribution - just from the way that it seems so fixated upon the man who sits just beyond its reach. Shaking herself, she knocks on the window, and he gets up to let himself out.

"I see what you mean." He agrees, reading her results, "That's really frustrating. At least we've got something that can give us more time - so it's better than nothing. Why don't you abandon this for the time being and research the potential analgesic effects? I think I've more or less managed to synthesise a valid equivalent compound to study, so with a bit of luck I won't have to fight with the little monster to take its venom for much longer: that venom is as hard to copy as it is to counter. If we can do that, then I can get rid of it back into the wild where it belongs. I think I'm going to end up having dreams about it growing to the size of a horse and chasing me around the colony at this rate."

She knows he's joking - but in some ways, she's relieved that he's as uneasy around it as she is. Maybe he _has_ noticed it watching him.

With the weather growing warmer, the agriculture teams are working at full pelt, though many of them now wear gaiters of various materials to protect their legs from any further stings. The number of scorpions has not grown - in fact, few people see them - but the threat they pose is so frightening that most have adopted protection whether they really need to or not. As Maddy returns to her workstation, Chris, the Field Manager, arrives to talk through the experimental crops that are going to be tried out this year alongside those which are grown regularly.

"We're going to give that tuber another go." He says, "We think we've managed to eradicate that blight - Harriet came up with an effective countermeasure."

"Good. What about the aeroponics nurseries?"

"I have six variant substrates that we'd like to try - but I'd like an analysis done on them before we do that."

"Fine. I'll sort that out - I've got some spare capacity in one of the subsidiary labs, so I'll see if I can get that done next week. I can tie it in with the analyses that I'm doing for Rob's medicinal plants."

"We've managed to root some spelt hybrids that might be resistant to that blackfly that looked set to move in two years ago, as well. The tests looked promising, so we'll try planting out this week if the weather holds."

"Good. Keep me posted."

At the other end of the colony, Mike is tending the bellows of their latest expansion of the blast furnace. They can't go too big, partly for practicality, partly because they don't have enough wood, but the bloom that they hope to get from this one should be of a more practicable size to work into something larger than just knife blades.

Keeping a watch on the internal temperature, Yseult looks up as Pete comes over to join her, "I've checked the coppices. They're doing very well - though if I had the time, I'd leave things for at least another year."

"If the worst comes to the worst," she muses, "we can set aside a small portion of the woodland and deforest it. I'd rather not - but if we make practical use of the clearance, it's something worth considering." She checks the gauge again, "It's looking good, Mike." She calls across, "Let it cool for now, we can re-line it in a few days once it's cold."

Leaving her assistant with the furnace, she accompanies Pete through to the areas of forest that he's coppicing. To the uneducated eye, it looks like wholesale destruction; trees cut down almost to the roots, but left to re-grow new shoots. These have been doing so for nearly seven years, and are nearly ready. Just not quite ready enough.

"I heard you and Malcolm had a bit of a spat a few days ago." He says, quietly. He is the only one in her team who doesn't refer to her boyfriend - now lover - by the now-regularly adopted moniker 'Captain Khaki'. Not to her face, at least, "Are you okay?"

She nods, "Fine. It was a bit of a shock at the time - but he had a very good reason to blow up the way that he did, and we'd made up by teatime."

"They murdered one of his scientists in front of him, didn't they?" he asks, rhetorically.

She nods, "He refused to help them when they told him that he had to mend a broken component. That was their response." She has no wish to go further than that: everyone knows about what happened to Steve McCormick. No one, however, but her and Jim know that Malcolm was tortured, too. They both left it up to him to tell Commander Taylor - but so far he has opted not to. While few things stay a secret in Terra Nova for long, they are both determined that _that_ episode doesn't get out.

"Poor sod. Everyone makes fun of him - but it's only now that you realise he's not quite the pompous twat that people think he is." He smiles a slightly wicked smile, "Besides, it's pretty obvious to me that you two have finally done the deed."

"Pardon?" she turns to him, shocked.

"Come on, you looked ridiculously blissed out after you came to work a couple of days ago. I've known you for nearly twelve years - it couldn't be more obvious that you two have been shagging." He sees the look on her face, "Don't panic - no one else has noticed. I think it's because they're all Yanks and they can't see a subtle hint even if it comes up and smacks them in the face with a placard that says 'I'm a subtle hint'. Besides, they're all too straight to get anything other than embarrassed about it. Not that it matters - they'd all be chuffed for you. I know I am. I've not seen you look so happy since before Niall died. Malcolm might be a pompous twat, but he's got good taste. I'll give him that."

"Don't tell me _you_ fancy me, Pete."

"Nice try, Max; but I'd have to change sides and abandon my friendship with Mrs King. You can keep your lady bits, thank you very much."

"You fancy _him_ , then?" she laughs.

"Don't push it, Madam."

* * *

Elisabeth reviews the results on her plex, "This is looking very good, Malcolm." She says, "These compounds are showing some real promise for pain relief. I'll come through in a couple of days to sit down with Maddy and work up a sequence to synthesise some samples, and I'll start clinical testing."

"We've still had no luck with an effective antivenin." He sighs, "I've run out of academic papers to go through, but there's just no way of persuading that blasted venom to stop blocking synapses. I think we may have to admit defeat and go with just slowing the process down. I've had one of the biochemists looking for some way of repelling the things, but they still come into the fields. If that botanist hadn't been wearing those improvised plastic pipes on her legs that everyone was laughing at, we'd have another patient in the infirmary spending half a week on life support. I'd try using a predator if I could find one that wouldn't be more interested in eating us."

She nods, "Sometimes we just have to accept that prevention is better than cure."

Malcolm looks at his watch, and groans, "God, I'm late again."

"What for? Are you meeting Max?"

"Not until later. I'm supposed to be at the lab we've set aside for testing the aeroponics substrates - or at least I was supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago. _Damn_."

"You're trying to do too much again, Malcolm." Elisabeth chides, "Isn't that what you have staff for?"

He looks rueful as he gathers up his coat and shrugs into it, "I know, I know. I'm supposed to delegate. Maybe, one day, I'll work out how to do that."

Rob Stanley is bent over a centrifuge as he hurries into the lab, "Sorry Rob. I got caught up with that bloody antivenin again. How are the samples looking?"

"Pretty good, actually. I've managed to get some reasonable extracts." He indicates a row of corked test tubes in a rack, each with a sample of gritty-looking, pale green gunge lurking at the bottom.

"Brilliant. I'll get started on those as soon as I can." He looks at his plex and sighs, "Which is not looking like it's going to happen this week."

"Why don't you get Lucy to do it? She's a perfectly competent biochemist and she's looking for something like this to work on. You always try to do everything yourself when it's cutting edge. Why not try sharing? If she's not free, I'm sure that Colin would take it on." He is grinning as he speaks, as aware as anyone else of Malcolm's hopeless inability to delegate unassigned work. He is almost as bad at delegating as he is at cooking.

"I'll think about it." He agrees, then sees Rob's eyes narrow, disbelievingly, "Alright - I really _will_ think about it."

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Now get out of here and leave me to it."

"I thought _I_ was the boss around here?"

"Like hell you are. We just let you think that so we can carry on with our heinous plan to take over the universe."

* * *

Yseult is setting out some cartons of salad from the market when he returns home. Given their propensity for inappropriate necking these days when in each other's company, as opposed merely to endearingly cute hugs, on the rare occasions that they are free to lunch together, they do so in private. It'll die down eventually, of course - once they get over the first flush of intense attraction and settle back down into the comfortable, loving relationship that was emerging before they effectively jumped each other - but at the moment, the degree of physical contact is quite intoxicating, and Malcolm keeps finding himself looking for work he can put off, or - gasp - _delegate_ , in order to elongate his lunch break.

"We re-lined the blast furnace this morning," Yseult says as they eat, "As that's an absolutely filthy job, I came back to shower and change. I think Mike wants to look dead butch - he wanted us to all jump in the river. Given that a lot of it's meltwater, I didn't really fancy a bout of hypothermia, so I chickened out. I'm not the 'emerging from the water like a warrior goddess' type."

"I'd pay good terras to watch that." Malcolm grins at her.

"What: 'soggy rat straggling out of a river and swearing a lot because she's freezing cold'? You'd want your money back. How's your morning been?"

"I've been running about like a blue-arsed fly." He admits, "I over-scheduled myself again."

"Have any of your lot tried cloning? You could leave your other self at the labs to annoy the scientists and spend all your time with me."

"Doing what, precisely?" he teases her.

"That depends on how much time we have." She advises, "Speaking of which, how much time _do_ we have?"

"However much you want." He promises, setting his plex aside.

* * *

Taylor is reading Guzman's latest report on the activity of their unwelcome neighbours. Despite his cold rebuff, Mira has continued to do nothing to antagonise him. But then, she's not offered any of her promised intelligence either, and so the benign standoff remains in force. Even his patrols haven't been repelled or harassed; she _must_ be desperate. Maybe he should consider her offer, then. He has plenty of faults; but out and out cruelty is not one of them. Allowing pride to destroy an entire community of people, no matter how small, would be unacceptable if he saw someone else doing it - so what right does he have to do it himself? Maybe, even if he won't have them back, he should allow them access to resources. A form of bartering, perhaps? They are expert hunters, and the meat supplies in the colony tend to be variable at best. The food vendors in particular would welcome a more reliable source of Gallusaur.

He looks up as Jim comes into the Command Centre, "I've posted the latest rosters; we lost that camera on the southern fence again, so we'll cut the trees back. I think one of them's hitting it and knocking it out."

"Fair enough." He indicates that Jim should come and sit down, "I'm thinking of making an offer to Mira."

Jim raises his eyebrows. The way things went after the last time he made that suggestion, he is surprised that Taylor is rethinking his decision.

"If things are as bad as Mira's suggesting, then it seems crazy for us to sit here and let 'em all die. I, for one, can't let that happen - it goes against my whole ethos of second chances."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Some basic trading. Let some of them in here to set up a stall - they're hunters, so people'll appreciate fresh meat. In exchange, we'll give them medical supplies, basic equipment and so on."

"No weapons, I assume?" Jim asks.

"You assume correctly."

Jim considers the prospect, "Have you discussed this with Malcolm? You know how he feels about the Sixers."

"I can't ask his permission for everything I do that involves them, Shannon. I get that he's angry about McCormick, but if we keep on holding grudges, then that leaves us the poorer in the long run."

So he _hasn't_ told Taylor what was done to him, then. Jim sighs, inwardly, and lets the matter drop.

Taylor is about to speak again when they are silenced by a distant, rather ominous, crashing. They frown at one another.

"That didn't sound good."

Jim nods, "I'll go check it out."

"No." Taylor advises, rising, " _We'll_ go check it out."

It doesn't take them long to track down the source of the noise, as they almost collide with running medics who clearly know where to go.

"What happened?" Jim shouts across to an orderly, who is approaching as fast as he can pelt.

"Building's come down out by the labs," he responds, rather shortly, as he is puffed out, "Apparently someone's in the wreckage."

"Any idea who?" Taylor demands, thinking already of who he needs to notify to get to the infirmary to be present for their injured loved one.

"Rosters say it was Doctor Wallace."

The pair exchange a worried glance and chase after the orderly as fast as they can go.

* * *

The building; an aluminium construction like most, has all but fallen in upon itself, and looks almost compressed. The degree of actual wreckage is insufficient for those present to pull it away by hand, but still people are trying.

"God above," Taylor grunts, breathlessly, "If Malcolm's under that, he's gonna be dead…I need to call Max…"

"No you don't," Jim stops him, and points across to the other side of the collapse, to see that Malcolm is present, and amongst a group of people trying to collectively pull a large panel of aluminium-banded wood out of the mangled mess.

"What?" Taylor stares across at the man they are supposedly intending to rescue, "Hey - whoa, whoa, whoa! Everybody hold up! Is there someone under this? I thought you were, Malcolm?"

He looks up at the new arrivals, his expression deeply worried, "I was meant to be - but I handed the task over to a colleague, she's under there somewhere…" he looks down, fearfully. The panel is far too heavy for them to move - and he has no idea where to start.

Taylor turns to Jim, "Get vehicles here - anything the construction crews can provide in terms of lifting equipment. A rhino if need be. And more people. We need to get that roof lifted - it looks like it's come down in one piece. Maybe see if someone can jack it up."

"On it." Jim turns and is gone, while Taylor makes his way around the mess, trying to work out how to begin. Malcolm is looking very pale by the time he gets around to the far end of the site, "There's a large, heavy-duty table in there - if she got under _that_ , then she may be alright…" he is muttering, almost to himself, "If she had time to do it…"

"You think there was somewhere she could take refuge?" Taylor interrupts.

"Possibly - unless it couldn't take the weight of the roof, and got crushed as well." He seems to be rambling, rather, "How the hell did this happen? I should've checked the building was safe - it's been there for years, we haven't used it since the Sixth came through and I never even thought…"

"Calm down." Taylor orders him, firmly, "You're not helping her by doing this - and we don't know what caused it to come down. Until we know, there's no point in trying to blame yourself."

"It should've been me in there - not Luce…I delegated it, and I never even thought to change the bloody rosters…"

"Stop it, Malcolm. Are you actually _looking_ for something to hit yourself over the head with? Until we know anything otherwise, this was an accident. Plain and simple. Got that?"

He nods, though Taylor isn't entirely convinced that he's taken it in.

By the time Jim arrives with the construction crews and lifting equipment, Yseult has also turned up, drawn by rumours, and the same belief that the man she loves is entombed in a collapsed building. Before she can reach Malcolm, Taylor catches her elbow, "Get him to stand back a ways. We need room to work - and he's not listening to me."

As soon as she's alongside him, he grasps her in his arms, "It's my fault, Max. I should've checked the building - it should've been me in there, not Luce - she's pregnant, for God's sake…"

"It's not your fault, Malcolm. You know it isn't - there was no way to know that this was going to happen. Come on - they need us to make some room so that they can get her out." Gently, she urges him to stand back. Unlike Taylor, she is able to get him to comply. She knows, however, that there is no way of persuading him to leave entirely, so she doesn't bother to try.

Darkness has fallen by the time they find the occupant. As soon as the roof is stable enough, Elisabeth worms her way into the small opening they have managed to create between it and the crumpled walls in order to assess the patient. Without hesitation, she is soon calling through to her team of medics with the well practised assurance of a trauma surgeon; and, despite the limited space in which to move, she sets to work on stabilising the woman in her care.

"I need a spinal board and gurney on standby!" she calls through, "I'm nearly ready to begin the extraction. Everyone get ready."

It's like a magnificently choreographed ballet, watching the medics all go to work, each knowing exactly what they are required to do, and doing it. Yseult knows that Elisabeth's reputation as an emergency medic is all but unsurpassed; it's the main reason - well _almost_ the main reason - why Malcolm recruited her in the first place. But she's never seen the Doctor actually at work in such circumstances, and it is - to a blacksmith-cum-archaeologist, at least - quite inspiring. For someone who comes across as quite soft spoken and compliant, Elisabeth is issuing orders firmly and without hesitating; she knows exactly what to do, who to ask for something, who is doing what. She doesn't need to ask people to do things that are required - they are so well trained by her that they already know what she'll need, and have it on standby. The woman is a powerhouse, and there's a true core of steel in her that most would never even realise was present at all.

Beside her, Malcolm is wracked with guilt. It's one of his team in there - someone who was doing something he'd opted to delegate, as he didn't really have time to do it himself. The only thing that he doesn't add to his rap-sheet is that he'd delegated it so he could stay at home with Max for a while longer. Given what they do when he does that, the guilt he would have felt would have left him largely on the floor. As it is, the fact that he was working on something equally important means he just feels that standard 'I should have been there instead' guilt. Lucy is only twenty five; it's her first baby…why didn't he _think_ …

Night has fallen by the time the medics are bringing the patient out. Examining the site, illuminated by large arc lamps, one of the construction workers calls Jim over, "I thought you should see this, Deputy Shannon," He calls, "I don't know how significant this is, given the age of the building and the possibilities of water ingress and other chemical contamination, but there's a major amount of corrosion on these joints." He is pointing to some fairly important connections between the roof and the walls - which look hideously worn and rusted.

"How long has this building been up?" Jim asks.

"I couldn't say for sure. I'd need to check - but by the siting of it, I'd say it's likely to have gone up around the time of the Third pilgrimage, so I reckon that would be about eight or nine years, or thereabouts? They're meant to last at least fifty years - so maybe someone skimped on the construction. I'll get my crews to track down any others that went up about the same time and check them for defects."

"I'll advise Commander Taylor."

The medical team are wheeling Lucy away as Elisabeth comes across to Malcolm, largely standing in his way so that he can't follow, "She's stable, Malcolm. So is the baby - there's no need for you to come with us. Her husband's waiting at the infirmary. Leave her to us. We'll do all we can for her, okay? You go home - there's nothing that you can do here, or there."

"I'll take him home, Elisabeth." Yseult assures her, "I'll make him a hot drink and give him some space to talk it over."

"And tell him for the hundredth time that this isn't his fault?" Elisabeth smiles, a little sadly. She looks back to the retreating medics, "And this year started so well."


	13. Burn

Chapter Thirteen

 _Burn_

Malcolm awakens to the smell of toast, and finds himself lying on his couch, covered with a coat. Sitting up, and trying to persuade his neck to realign, he looks over the back of the furniture to see Yseult covering two slices of toasted spelt bread with soya margarine, "What happened?"

She smiles, sympathetically, "You wouldn't go to bed until you'd heard from the infirmary about Lucy." She reminds him, "At which point you had an enormous adrenaline drop and crashed out on the sofa. As I didn't have a hope of moving you, I bunged a coat over you and left you to it."

"Ah." He looks a little sheepish as she hands him the plate of toast, "Sorry. Where did you sleep?"

"I didn't want to sleep in your bed without you, so I pushed the two armchairs together and conked out on those."

"That's one way of doing it." He takes a slice, bites into it, and offers the other to Yseult, "Has Elisabeth been in touch?" he asks, once he's chewed and swallowed.

"Not yet. You may be her boss, but her hubby comes first. I think she'll wait until a bit later this morning." She looks at him, "Are you feeling any less responsible today?"

He shakes his head, "Not really. It should've been me in that shed, not Luce - I asked her to do it because there wasn't any way of getting the results this week. I was just too busy. Rob needed them, so I delegated the testing."

She sits beside him, links her arm with his and leans her head on his shoulder, "It sucks being the boss, sometimes."

Malcolm's plex pings to alert him to a new message, and he leans over, "It's Elisabeth."

"And?"

He reads, and looks relieved, "Luce is going to be fine - so's the baby. She _did_ manage to get under that table - and it held the structure up enough to protect them both. She was knocked out, though, so she's staying in for observation until Elisabeth's happy there are no residual effects from the concussion. She's signed her off work for the next three weeks, just as a precaution." He sighs, "At least she's okay - I don't think I could've lived with myself if she'd been badly hurt - or worse." He checks his rosters, "All I had her down for was working on those substrates and Rob's extracts anyway; since the lot of them were destroyed in the collapse, there's no work for her to do, and I don't have to reassign anything. By the time she's back on her feet, we'll have some new extracts, so she can take as long as she needs." He looks rather sad for a moment, "There would've been a time, a few years ago, when I would've been pushing for her to come back at the first opportunity. I was a stupidly pompous git back then."

"As opposed to just being an ordinarily pompous git?" Yseult asks, cheekily. She knows how far she can push her teasing these days.

"Well, I _was_ going to kiss you," Malcolm huffs, "But I don't think I'll bother now."

"Just as well." She smiles, "I want to finish my toast."

* * *

Taylor's expression is grim, and he watches the woman sitting opposite with flinty eyes, "Let's just accept that I'm never going to trust you, Mira, and get past that. You need our help, and I'm in a position to provide it - which I will. As long as you appreciate that, the first hint of trouble, you and yours are out again."

"I don't need terras." Mira advises, coldly, "They're of no use to me."

"I'm aware of that. In return for whatever you intend to trade, you'll get supplies that you need - be it medical, tools or materials."

"I'll need a Sonic Ri…"

"No weapons." Taylor cuts her off, at once, "Not unless you prove your people can be trusted, and only then I if I feel that it's the right thing to do. You can hunt without sonic weapons - you've shown that."

"Fine." Mira snaps, "No weapons." She is hating this. Hating every minute of it. Her longed for return to the future has been taken from her - she will never see her daughter again; a daughter that has been left to choke to death on a dying planet. She has been treated as a servant by the people who she considered to be allies. And now, to add insult to injury, she is having to grovel to the man who took it all away from her.

"What do you plan on selling?" Jim asks. She glares at him, but sees then that his expression is entirely reasonable. He merely wants to know. It seems that he is slightly more amenable to their presence, then.

"Wild meats." She advises, "How long've you been living on tofu?"

"Too long." Jim admits, "A Gallusaur should be for life, not just for Solstice."

She stares at him, not knowing what to make of his flippant attitude. Her eyes hardening again, she turns to Taylor, "We provide you with hunted meat and fish, and in return we get supplies for our camp. If we… _earn_ …your trust." She spits out the word 'earn' with venom, "You'll consider admitting us to the colony."

"Exactly." Taylor advises, with equal hostility, "Do you want that in writing?"

"Would you hold to it if it was?"

He doesn't rise to her jibe. Instead, he turns to Jim, "See our… _Visitor_ …out."

Mira says nothing as she follows Jim down the stairs from the Command Centre, but then he turns to her, "One question, Mira. What happened to the two men that Lucas set to torturing Malcolm?" He keeps his voice low; no one else knows what happened, but he can't believe that Mira hasn't found out; from their boasting if nothing else.

She looks at him, and blinks. This is not a question she was expecting, "That depends on who they were. Lucas didn't tell me everything that he did, or what he ordered my men to do."

"Find out, Mira. Find out _exactly_ who they are, and make sure they never come here. If I find out that they're in the compound at any time, then they go in the brig. No questions, no appeals, no nothing. Got that?"

She eyes him, shrewdly, "Taylor doesn't know, does he?"

"If he did, then he'd probably shut you all out for good: he doesn't take kindly to his people being harmed. If they're still alive, keep them out. If not, I'll go to Taylor and the deal's off."

She nods, "I'll see to it."

By the end of the week, a rhino has been dispatched to a neutral meeting point with some refrigeration boxes. With only meat to offer, Mira has insisted that she be supplied with a means of keeping the stuff fresh before bringing it in. If the colonists end up with food poisoning, things are hardly going to get off to the best of starts.

To everyone's surprise, Malcolm has not taken as badly to the concept as his colleagues expected, though only Jim and Yseult know the real reason why he might. Other than refusing to have any truck with anyone who comes in to trade, including their wares, he retreats gracefully, and works on developing a taste for beancurd, which he would otherwise loathe.

"Does Elisabeth know?" Yseult asks Jim, quietly. While she is sure Jim would never have blabbed, she has noticed just how acute Elisabeth can be.

"Not really: but she knows it's more than just McCormick's murder. She's no fool - and she knew him well when they were younger - so she's guessed his flip-out in the meeting was caused by more than something happening to someone else. I just play dumb - but she's just the same with me. She knows I'm not telling her everything. The only difference is, because it's not about me, she's not pushing it."

"They blindfolded him," Yseult says, very quietly, "He couldn't see what they were doing, or where they were going to touch the prod to him next. He was terrified."

"And he never told us, because he thought we wouldn't be interested." Jim sighs, "God - are we really so shut into our own little cliques that we couldn't see when one of our own was in pain? I've told Mira to find out who they were, and, if they're still alive, make sure they never come here. I can't see how we could ever admit them into the Colony. He'd freak out. We've already got one person under permanent house arrest."

Yseult nods: Andrew Fickett. They couldn't sensibly throw him out; but with one murder under his belt, and an attempted one alongside it that had nearly cost Maddy her life, what else could they do? No one can stay in the brig forever; it's not designed for long-term residency.

"I think he'd come to terms with it, Jim." She muses, "Malcolm's a great deal braver than you're giving him credit for. Regardless of his reasons for doing so, he managed to conceal a great deal of pain after they finished torturing him. The prod burned him quite badly, but he just did what he could with one of the laboratory med-kits, and got back to work."

Jim looks at her, bemused, "I've seen his scars, Jim." She advises him.

"Oh." Then realisation dawns as to what she would have been doing in order to have seen them, "Oh! I…er…see."

"Don't worry about how Malcolm will deal with this. If he has any difficulties, we'll support him through it. Isn't that what we do?"

"It is, Max." Jim sighs, feeling guilty again, "It most definitely is."

* * *

The new arrangements take no more than a week to bed-in, and even those who are entirely wary of Mira and her people begin to accept their presence without demur. The market traders who run food stalls are particularly good customers, though the bartering principle fell rather flat as they had nothing to trade, so Mira has relaxed the 'no terras' rule, and those who sell more rugged equipment have been firmly instructed that gouging is strictly prohibited - and will result in the loss of their pitch.

Mira has quietly reported to Jim that, of the two men he wants banned from the site, one is dead, and the other has been effectively grounded. Despite this, however, Malcolm has taken to never visiting the market on days when the meat stall is in operation; and he is always surprisingly tense when Mira is present at any staff meetings. Now that people - even if only two - know what happened to him, it seems that he is finding it much harder to conceal it than he used to.

For others, however, a steady supply of meat-based protein has gone down very well, and Elizabeth has quite surpassed herself this evening with something akin to what she refers to as a 'cottage pie', albeit with Gallusaur instead of beef, and a root vegetable topping instead of mashed potato. Having decided that he never wants to look a block of beancurd in the face again, Jim is more than happy to tuck in - they've not had Gallusaur since the solstice; the supply is too unreliable - or, at least, it was.

"How do you think things are going with our new trading partners?" she asks him, later that evening once Zoe is in bed, Maddy has gone out with Mark, and Josh has gone to the bar to oversee the evening shift, leaving them comfortably alone on the couch with a glass of surprisingly not-nasty home-brewed wine each.

"Better than I thought." He admits, "Mira's picked her people well - she doesn't want to risk antagonising Taylor, not when the future of her entire group is riding on this."

"Do you think we could have them back in the end?"

"Honest answer?" he turns to her, "I don't think we've got a lot of choice. Mira's keeping her intel to herself at the moment; and she might have information that we need. Those soldiers might well still be out in the badlands, but they can't stay there much longer. Sooner or later they'll come back as well. The more people we have to see them off, the better - and I'd rather have them in here where I can keep an eye on them, than out there where they can bide their time and pick the side they think is going to win."

"How would Commander Taylor deal with that?"

"The way he always does. Gets irritated about it, then deals with it. He's always trying to see the bigger picture where he can, Elisabeth. Sure, Mira's a bit of a blind spot, but even he can see there are advantages, and we have the better hand right now. She's got people stuck up in trees with no tools to mend the huts they live in, nothing to keep watch on us, or to protect her if anything big decided to come at them. The Phoenix soldiers might've needed her more than she needed them - but she needs us more than we need her."

"I still can't work out why they've never come back in the entire two years since they left." She admits, "I wouldn't have thought they'd have any reason to stay there for so long."

"Something's keeping 'em there. That's for sure." Jim agrees, "Though I don't know any more than you do what that is. That Commander of theirs - Hooper, wasn't it? He didn't seem to be the suicidally obedient type."

"I suppose that depends on how desperate he is to get back to the future again."

"Yeah. I guess it does."

* * *

Mira sits in a chair, her arms folded, her legs crossed. Every inch of her drips cynicism and distrust, and she regards Commander Taylor with narrowed eyes, "What do you want to know?"

"Why are the Phoenix soldiers still out in the Badlands. What's keeping them there?"

She shrugs, "Stupid pipe dreams. They think they can make it back to 2149."

"How? Hope Plaza was reduced to nothing. It'll take more than two years to get the damage repaired and rebuild a working particle accelerator, never mind the cost."

She leans forward, "What do _you_ know about the Badlands?"

"Only that there's something about them that interests the Phoenix Group. That and the figurehead that was out there, which suggests that there's another time fracture."

"Maybe there is. Maybe there isn't." She says, noncommittally. "They believe there is, so, in their minds: there is. I got tired of waiting for them to find it. Besides, given that the terminus is blown, they can't control anything at this end anyway. Why waste resources and lives trying to get hold of your good Doctor to repair it when there's nothing to connect it to?" She sits back, and smiles, "Whatever they've got in mind, sooner or later they'll come for him - even if only to trade him for supplies. He's a very valuable commodity."

Taylor glares at her, "He's a member of my community, and a valued human being, Mira. If I hear you speak about Malcolm like he's a piece of equipment again, then you leave."

"Don't make me laugh. I know what everyone here thinks of him - he's a joke. You only tolerate him because he's the best scientist you've got."

"A lot can change in two years, Mira." Jim warns from behind her.

"Of course it can." She snorts.

"What sort of state are they in?" Taylor resumes, crossly - largely because he knows that she is, to a limited degree, right.

She shrugs, dismissively, "I'd give them another month. Two at most. We were keeping them alive - and now they're on their own. Food stocks were down to the rations that nobody wants to eat, and they're relying on condensers and recyclers for water." Then she smiles again, rather unpleasantly, "They'll be desperate - and they'll want whatever they can get from you. Unless, of course, you have me to keep watch and be your early warning system."

Jim waits for Taylor's vehement refusal - but it doesn't come. Instead, the Commander glares at Mira, "How do I know that you won't sell us down the river to the Phoenix soldiers?"

"You don't." Mira counters, quite calmly, "You'll just have to trust me. Or not. Your choice: I know you don't have the resources to keep watch. I, on the other hand, do. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it." Taylor growls, grudgingly.

Mira rises to her feet, smiling an unnervingly winning sort of smile, "Good doing business with you, Commander."

* * *

Jim and Taylor stand at the gate as Mira walks quite calmly away from them. For a place as dangerous as this, she seems remarkably unconcerned at moving on foot. Perhaps they've got a vehicle at the treeline or something.

"I never thought I'd hear you say yes to Mira offering to be your eyes in the forest." Jim admits.

"Believe me; if I had a choice, I'd've shown her out the moment she mentioned it. But she's right. I can't spare the eyes, and with the sensor net out of action since the occupation, it's not like I can use that."

"True." Jim lowers his voice, "What do you think about her suggestion that the Phoenix soldiers might try to use Malcolm as a bargaining chip instead of a terminus-repair-man?"

"If they're that desperate, they might try it. They don't realise that his skills would be replaceable for us. _He_ wouldn't be replaceable - but the colony could go on without him."

"You'd _do_ that to him? To Max?" Jim stares at him, aghast.

"God, no." Taylor snaps, crossly, "I just wish that we could make _them_ see it so they'll leave him alone." He turns back, as the gate is lowered again, and the pair cross the marketplace back to the Command Centre. Taylor remembers his conversation with Elisabeth at the Solstice. It looks like his gut was right.

"Has anyone seen Doctor Shannon?" Someone is calling, across the assembled populace, "She's on call - can someone get in touch with her? There's been an explosion in the laboratories!" The worried scientist looks about, "Anyone?"

"I'll find her. You get to the scene." Jim advises, sprinting off in search of his wife.

* * *

"Don't go in there, Commander," Malcolm hastens to stop him, "Not without a mask. The place is full of fumes." He hands one over, and then dons one himself.

"What happened?" he asks, as they make their way into a rather misty looking laboratory.

"God knows. Some idiot washed out the glassware in the lab with acetone. One of my chemists was making an etching solution and poured out some concentrated nitric acid into a flask."

"A bad idea, I take it?"

"Seriously bad. It starts a violent reaction, and the solution can explode in a confined container. He's in our first aid room having severe chemical burns seen to as I speak." He sounds furious, despite his voice being muffled by the mask.

"How the hell did it happen?"

"I wish I knew." Malcolm snaps, "I don't keep acetone in here - using it is strictly forbidden; all our glassware goes through a washer. We only have it at all because we need it to clean grease from surfaces: I don't allow it in the chem-store; it's kept in the cleaning locker."

"So only a complete dumb-ass would wash the glassware with it?"

"In a manner of speaking, Commander, yes." Malcolm is still looking very angry, "I wish I'd been prepping that solution: I can smell acetone. Connor couldn't; not everyone can. If I hadn't been called away to look at a Mass Spectrometer reading for Rob, I would've been making it and I would've probably noticed it long before I even picked up the acid. God knows how much of the glassware's been affected. I'll have to have the whole lot put through at least one clean to make sure it's all gone."

" _You'd_ planned to be working with the acid?" Taylor interrupts his tirade.

Malcolm nods, "God alone knows who did it. It's such a basic error that no one's going to own up to it. We haven't got any security cameras in here either, so we won't be able to see who was responsible."

Taylor watches as Malcolm continues to complain about the stupidity of his staff, but his thoughts are elsewhere. Wasn't Malcolm supposed to be working in the building that collapsed? And now this…

"Get the lab aired out." He advises, "Jim's probably found Elisabeth by now and you can see how your boy is doing."

"Thank you, Commander. I'm sorry you had to be bothered with this - it's just ridiculous. I can't believe that anyone would be that stupid."

"There's no accounting for people, Malcolm. I imagine whoever's responsible is feeling extremely stupid right about now. If nothing else, it's an object lesson for your staff. I'll see myself out."

* * *

Jim stares at Taylor, " _Malcolm_ was supposed to be using that acid? Wasn't he supposed to be in that building that came down as well?"

"Looks like it." Taylor nods, "He said he wouldn't have been caught by it - apparently he can smell one of the chemicals, so he would've detected it and not poured out the acid. But still…" he frowns and shakes his head, "Two accidents that he's missed by pure chance - both of which could've done him some serious damage - and _have_ done."

"Maybe the Phoenix Soldiers aren't as much of a threat as someone inside the compound?" Jim says, mostly rhetorically.

"That's what it's looking like to me." Taylor mutters, "It looks like someone's trying to hurt, or even kill, Malcolm. Get onto it. I don't want any more attempts, and I certainly don't want them to succeed."

"Definitely." Jim nods, "I'll get on it right away."


	14. Breathe

Chapter Fourteen

 _Breathe_

Sitting at a table in Boylan's, a coffee at his elbow, Jim thinks through all that he discussed with Taylor the previous evening. While it seems a reasonable assumption to make - someone has tried twice to kill Malcolm, but failed - some aspects of it just don't make any sense.

How could said killer have known that the building was going to collapse? One of the construction guys mentioned something about corrosion - but no one knew it had happened, because it wasn't meant to have got that bad so fast. Yet it did. And even if they _did_ know about it, how could they have known that it was going to come down when it did? The whole thing seems too reliant upon chance to be possible. No - he can't figure it out at all.

As for the other 'accident', with no possible suspects, no security footage - why would there be a need for security in the Research Labs, for Pete's sake? - why shouldn't it have been a straightforward accident? The most stringent safety protocols can be messed up from time to time. If the stuff that caused it was in a cleaning cupboard, perhaps someone thought to use it for cleaning. People can be that foolish. Maybe he should speak to the hygiene teams - see if any of them might've accidentally used it to get some grease off a glass.

Much though he finds Malcolm irritating - and he _does_ \- he still can't believe that the pompous Brit has managed to push someone so far that they'd attempt to physically harm him. Besides, he's mellowed a hell of a lot, even in the time since the Tenth - and even more so now that he's taken up with Max. Not to mention the revelation that he's _entirely_ aware that people think he's a…what did he call himself once? A prat? Whatever that means…and that he was so acutely aware of it that he kept a brutal attack upon himself secret to avoid people thinking he was angling for undeserved sympathy. The impression he gets is that Malcolm used to be at _least_ ten times more annoying than he is these days - but if that's the case, why wait until now to take it out on him? Nope - it just doesn't make any sense.

The wreckage of the collapsed building is still abandoned where it fell, as there is nowhere to take it yet. The foundry isn't ready to accept the undamaged aluminum for re-smelting, so no one's done anything about breaking it up. Finishing his now-cold coffee with a slight grimace, Jim departs to re-examine what's left, putting in a call to one of the Construction Foremen to drop by and talk him through it.

* * *

"Yeah - look. This is completely corroded through." The Foreman, a robust French Canadian by the name of Robert ('with a silent 't' Mr Shannon - it's pronounced the French way'), is crouching beside a rather ghastly looking joist that looks as though something has eaten half of it away, and turned the rest of it a revolting shade of brown, "It was an accident waiting to happen - there must've been a chemical reaction in the exterior - perhaps a bad batch of paint. We got a lot of poor quality materials in the early days, until Taylor kicked up a fuss about it with Hope Plaza."

"So it didn't rust?" Jim asks.

Robert shakes his head, "Water doesn't corrode aluminum - it reacts with the air and forms a hard coating of aluminum oxide - water can't get through it. You need chemicals; usually acids, or something like that. Some of the paints we had through in the early days reacted with the rainwater here and became acidic; though I've never seen it do something like this before. First time for everything, I suppose. Maybe that storm we had last autumn caused a leak."

"What about the other buildings that went up when this one did?"

"Raj had them all inspected for Commander Taylor - I think the report's in. I can check for you?"

Jim nods, and continues to examine the wreckage. It seems so remarkably convenient - a bad batch of paint; water ingress causing a conduit for an acidic solution to corrode something that wouldn't otherwise rust. But it still doesn't explain how someone would _know_ that the place was ready to come down. Hell, it wasn't even being used when the storm happened, was it? He'll need to check that. But why would the corrosion of one joist bring the whole thing down? Bemused, he starts to look for as many others as he can see, and stares at them in astonishment. They're _all_ corroded - most aren't as bad as the one he was looking at, but several are pretty close. Hell - how could anyone not have seen this?

He looks up as Robert returns, a plex in hand, "Here it is. We're lucky - none of the other buildings were affected. It may be that this one was compromised by other buildings that went up around it later on; maybe they caused a wind-tunnel effect; forced rain into the upper portion of the roof. If that paint _is_ bad, then that would've been your cause."

"How quickly would it've got this bad?" Jim asks; the joists look incredibly thick.

Robert looks at them, clearly thinking the matter over, "Difficult to say - I'm not a scientist, and I've not seen this happen before. It depends on how strong the corrosive was, _what_ it was, and how much was coming in. It could've been happening on and off for years - or fairly quickly over a matter of weeks. It's impossible to tell now, I'm afraid. I'd suggest getting a paint sample and asking someone to test it."

Jim nods, "Thanks."

"Anytime. If you need anything else, just give me a call." Robert turns to go, then stops as he appears to remember something, "Oh, Raj has scheduled this for removal in the next week or two. If you want to get any samples before it all gets broken up at the foundry, I'd do it now, if I were you."

Still crouching, Jim eyes the mess with disgust. He needs to have a chemical test done. Now, how to do _that_ without involving Malcolm?

* * *

Jim returns to the table at Boylan's. As he doesn't have an office _per se_ , and would normally prefer it that way, he tends to hole up in a quiet corner in the bar when he needs to work in peace - particularly now that people still aren't drinking. With no apples to ferment, the cider's run out again.

His small sample of paint sits, accusingly, in front of him. He needs someone to test it, and he would normally prevail upon Malcolm to do so - though he no longer has to start disassembling the lab as a persuasive measure; he smiles to himself as he remembers the look of consternation on the Science Officer's face when he did it. This time, however, given that he is investigating the possibility that this was a targeted attack - and Malcolm is, supposedly, the individual at whom it was targeted - he doesn't feel he can ask.

"Can I bother you, Jim?" He looks up to see that Yseult has found him.

"Sure, Max. Take a seat. What can I do for you?"

"I was over at Malcolm's last night," she begins, a little tentatively.

"Really?" He smiles, a little cheekily.

"No, I didn't stay the night, Mr Dirty Minded Shannon," she glares at him, not entirely seriously, "Contrary to rumour, we are not perpetually 'at it like rabbits'."

"Sorry. Please continue."

" _Thank_ you." She smiles, then sighs, "He was telling me what happened in the labs yesterday. After what happened with the building collapse…I was just wondering." She pauses, then goes for it, "Is someone trying to harm him?"

Jim looks at her, surprised, "Does _he_ think that?"

She shakes her head, "No - he hasn't made the connection yet. As far as he's concerned, the collapse was an accident, and the acetone in the glassware was someone being phenomenally stupid. He's still fuming about that."

"Seriously?" Jim stares at her, amazed, "Mind you, I'm not complaining that he seems to be that dense."

"He is under no illusions over what people think of him, Jim; but it hasn't occurred to him that he's pissed someone off so much that they'd try to kill him. Why should he? No one would normally think that they're being targeted by a killer, would they? Besides, the incidents affected other people, and it hasn't dawned on him yet that both of them would - but for a chance occurrence - have affected _him_." She smiles, fondly, "He's too busy being miffed that someone ignored his carefully established safety protocols."

"God, he really mixes up his priorities doesn't he?"

"It's the way he is, Jim."

"And you love him for it?" He grins at her.

"Shut up." She blushes, and slaps him on the arm. But then she looks worried again.

"Be honest with me, Jim. Are you investigating these as potential attacks on Malcolm?"

He nods, "It doesn't make a whole lot of sense - if these are planned attacks, then they're putting a lot of faith in chance. What were the odds of the roof collapsing when it did? What chance was there that Malcolm would've been the one who put the acid in the flask? In both cases, they missed him."

"It's likely that the second one would've failed anyway - Malcolm can smell acetone."

"And that helps precisely how?"

"Not everyone can, Jim. I can't - Connor, his chemist, couldn't. Perhaps the person who washed out the glassware couldn't either. It's not _that_ rare a trait, but there are far more people who _can't_ detect it than people who can." She thinks for a moment, "I imagine, if he ever does make the connection, he'll be treating Rob Stanley like his guardian angel."

"Huh?" Jim looks at her, bemused.

"He was going to do those tests in that lab himself, remember? Trouble was, he didn't have time to do them as quickly as Rob needed the results - which is why he delegated it. And the two of them got so fascinated by the results from some tests Rob was conducting that he ran out of time to prepare the etching solution before he was due to have a meeting with Chris, so he had to ask Connor to step in and do it."

"Wow - I see what you mean. He was damned lucky, wasn't he?"

"He was. My concern is that, if this person is determined, and wants to have another go, his luck's going to run out."

* * *

Jim has given up trying to find someone else to run his tests. With Malcolm so annoyed that his safety protocols were ignored by someone, he has rather clamped down on what people can, and can't, do in the labs without referring to him first. It won't last long - even he'll get fed up with it - but in the meantime, no one is willing to conduct any form of test on the sly to avoid his finding out.

"I need you to run some tests on a paint sample." He begins, as Malcolm is bent over a set of test tubes with a pipette, "We're checking for sources of corrosion on the collapsed building."

Malcolm doesn't transfer his attention away from his work, "Only if you promise not to try and destroy my lab again."

It's better than an outright 'No'.

Setting down the pipette, Malcolm turns to Jim, "Why paint?"

"We're wondering if that's what caused the corrosion in the building that came down. The Foreman, Robert, suggested that they got some rogue batches through that turned rain into acid. Or something like that." He adds, the processes involved being rather more complex than he was taught in school.

Malcolm takes the bait without hesitation, "I remember Commander Taylor mentioning something about that - substandard materials being sent through at one time. I didn't hear anything about paint, though." He muses, intrigued, "Let me run some tests - I'll let you know."

"How soon can you do it?"

"I'll stay back tonight."

"What, no date?" Jim grins, impertinently.

" _Not_ that it's any of your business," Malcolm bristles, "but Max is starting another charcoal burn this evening. We've got enough rumours around our heads as it is without people dropping hints the size of anvils about us sneaking off into the woods. You'll have your results tomorrow morning." The dismissal is monumentally unsubtle, but the pair of them have a façade of childish enmity to maintain, after all. Leaving the sample on the workbench, Jim departs.

"Was that Dad?" Maddy asks, coming through with her plex under her arm and a sample pot of some clear fluid or other in one hand.

"He wants me to analyse a paint sample from the collapsed building. The Construction Foreman he spoke to thinks the paint on it might have been compromised in some way."

"Could it have been?"

"Possibly - when the colony started up, a few people thought that we would be a great dumping ground for substandard materials. As I understand it, Commander Taylor disabused them of that notion very early on. The last delivery that came through before he threw a fit and demanded we get better quality stuff arrived with the Third, which was more-or-less when that building went up. It's feasible that the paint was substandard in some fashion - it could've reacted with the local rainfall to produce something corrosive."

She nods, "I'm done for today, I think. Mom and I are going to try some more tests on our latest analgesic tomorrow." She raises the pot for him to see, "I'm just going to put this into cool storage before I go."

"That sounds good. I'll see you in the morning."

Gradually, the labs empty around him. It used to be regularly like this - people departing while he stayed behind and continued to work as darkness fell. At the time, he thought it was simply because his work was important to him; but these days, now that he has someone to go home _to_ , he recognises the real reason. He had no social life. No friends. No one to talk to about his day. No wonder he preferred to stay as late as he could: better that than sitting alone in a silent house with nothing but scientific papers to keep him company.

The results of his tests have been spat out onto paper by the spectrometer - one of the older ones as he doesn't want to use the finer machines to mess about with building materials - and he retires to the 'lock up' to peruse them. Somehow it's become a habit to retreat there - people always avoid him when he does, so he finds he can get far more work done, particularly now that he has imposed additional restrictions to try and get it through everyone's heads that he has protocols for a reason. Ironically, he seems to do the same even when there's no one left in the labs to bother him.

Reading through the results, he frowns: there is nothing wrong with the paint that he can determine - while other supplies might have been of poor quality, the paint was perfectly fine. Something else must've been the source of…

 _Clunk_.

He pauses, and then experiences a cold chill up his spine. He can guess what caused that noise, and even as he forces himself to turn, he doesn't want to. He knows already what he will see.

 _Oh God…_

The front of the vivarium has come away…and its occupant is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

He doesn't hesitate. Scorpions can't jump, and the table at which he sits has legs of tubular steel that it won't be able to climb, so he scrambles onto it, and looks about nervously for the escapee.

The room is sparsely furnished - there are no cupboards or solid units against the walls, so it doesn't take him long to spot the creature - which has positioned itself within skittering distance of the door. Best not to open it, then - or it'll get into the main labs and then he'll never find it.

"Great. Now what?" he asks it, crossly, fumbling in his pocket for his comm unit to summon assistance.

Nothing.

Nervously, he starts checking every pocket he has - and he's wearing one of his utility jackets, so he has a _lot_ of them. He sighs with a large degree of self-disappointment, and looks out through the window. Even though the lab is in semi-darkness, he can just make it out, a small unit beside two abandoned plexes. One his, one someone else's. He's on his own.

"So." He addresses the hunched arachnid, "Two options. I try and recapture you, or I sit here like a lemon all night until someone comes in tomorrow and helps me try recapturing you - and I never live it down." Bizarrely, even now he doesn't consider killing the creature to be an option.

He has no means of persuading the scorpion to return to its confinement - even if it _could_ understand him, it would have every right to stay as far away from the vivarium as possible. Limited though its intelligence is, it associates the vivarium with confinement, and regular fights that end in a nasty stab in its tail. No amount of cockroaches are going to compensate for that. He doesn't believe for a moment that the little creature is deliberately vindictive - it just wants to find a dark crevice to hide in, as it would in the wild - but a busy research laboratory is so wholly unsuitable that he's got no choice. He's got to trap it.

"Look." He says, "If I put you in something, and you don't sting me. How about I let you out tonight and we call it quits?"

He looks about for something to use - and groans inwardly. His tidiness has let him down; all he has is the vivarium. He has about as much chance of getting the bloody thing back into it as he has of persuading it to waltz with him.

No choice then.

"I'm sorry." He looks at the scorpion, still poised aggressively in response to his scrutiny, "We can't stay here forever. I'd hoped to release you back into the wild again - but that's not going happen, is it?"

His eyes settle upon a solid-looking electronic scale. As long as he's careful, and uses the long edge to keep his hand out of the creature's reach, he should be able to kill the scorpion in a single blow. Reaching for it, he checks that the scorpion hasn't moved, and carefully gets down from the table as far away from it as he can, in case it _has_ got a vindictive streak and opts to charge at him.

As he watches it, it watches him in return, but remains absolutely still, pedipalps to the fore, its tail coiled and ready as a last line of defence. Despite its rather hideous countenance, he still can't help but feel sorry for it. This was supposed to end with its release back into the wild - and he was planning to do it in the next couple of weeks. Now, however, he's going to have to do the one thing he hadn't planned to. How the hell did it get out? He hasn't touched that damned catch - did it malfunction? He'll have to check that once this is over.

It remains absolutely still, watching his every move. He knows it's doing so with the sole intention of taking evasive action; and he moves carefully. It won't attack him - not unless he corners it and gives it no choice.

"Stay still." He urges it, quietly, "Stay still and this'll be over before you know anything's happened."

He strikes out with the edge of the scale, and it contacts with the laminate floor as the scorpion skitters out of the way and heads to the other side of the door, "Damn!"

Great. Now it _knows_ his approach is intended to be lethal.

His second attempt is no better, and this time it attempts to strike back at him, rushing at his hand as he rises again, and causing an almost instinctive, if undignified, leap back up onto the table. So far, he has shown it that he intends to kill it - and, it seems, singularly pissed it off. _God, you're useless, Wallace_.

Malcolm stays on the table for another fifteen minutes - checking his watch periodically. Perhaps that will be enough to persuade the scorpion to calm down again. It's still close to the door - it must have worked out that, if that door opens, it can get out of the room - it's seen him do it often enough.

He has no means of creeping up on the creature - no matter what he does, it'll see him coming. Maybe he needs to be less tentative about it; move more quickly so it can't prepare for his attack.

This time, he positions himself close to the front of the table and sits on the edge of it, closest to the scorpion. It shifts slightly, expecting an attack; but instead, he remains where he sits, checking his watch until ten minutes have passed. Then, moving as quickly as he can, he pushes himself from the table, and slams the edge of the scales downwards.

"Got you!" he can't keep the triumph from his voice as the hard steel crunches down onto the thick shell of its exoskeleton. He's got it…

For a moment, the pedipalps snap wildly as the scorpion's nervous system goes crazy, and then the tail snaps forth like a whiplash; a last failing action that looks like vengeance, but is nothing more than reflex. Malcolm has no more than a few seconds to see where it's going. Straight into his wrist.

The pain is appalling, and he cannot stop the scream that leaps from his throat. Bizarrely, the act causes him to lose his temper, and he slams the scale down on the dying scorpion several more times, " _You utter bastard!_ "

By the time he regains control, the creature has been largely crushed into a nasty, gooey pulp, and he is halfway back across the room behind the fallen table with no real idea how he got there, or how the table ended up on its side. Trembling, groaning at the vicious burn of the sting, he examines his wrist, and tries to get up. He needs to reach his comm unit next door and call Elisabeth. Now.

Except he can't. His legs have stopped working.

* * *

 _Rules for poisoning by venomous animal. Keep envenomed area lower than the heart. Breathe slowly. Stay very still. Stay calm and await help._

Who told him that? He can't remember now - it was probably in one of his Zoology seminars when he was at Trinity. Will it make any difference? Probably not - he's missing the last part: awaiting help. There won't be any - everyone's gone for the day. His staff are used to his staying behind. They're used to his not socialising with anyone. They won't realise he's not gone home - he never spends time with them, so how would they know that he's here? Of course they wouldn't. Yseult would, of course - but she's at her compound overseeing the charcoal burn.

He can't send a message. He can't call someone - even if he could still get words out, which he can't anymore, no one would hear his cries - not within two sets of walls.

The paralysis feels strange. He knows he's lying on the floor - and there's a sense of pressure from doing so, but he can't really _feel_ it. Nor can he move - his arms and legs are beyond his ability to control any longer. How long has he been like this now? He can't see his watch.

No one's coming. No one is coming to his aid - no one knows he's here. The thought persists in his mind; he is going to die here, on the floor. Alone. No one even knowing until someone comes in tomorrow and finds his body.

 _I'm sorry, Max…_

She's lost someone to the local wildlife before - and now it's going to happen again. Has he told her he loves her? _Really_ told her? Spoken the words 'I love you'? He can't remember…

How long does he have left? _I think it takes probably about half an hour from initial sting to the diaphragm and intercostal muscles grinding to a halt - give or take another fifteen to twenty minutes or so. We've only had one incident, so no one's quite sure._

He doesn't want this. Not to die like this…not to die at all - but not like this; slowly waiting for his ability to breathe to falter, and to endure the horror of suffocation while lucid and aware. Even now, he is quite convinced that it's becoming harder to persuade his ribs to move, to get air into his lungs…

 _Oh God - please, help me. I don't want to die - I don't want to leave her. I've only just found someone. God no…please God…_

There is nothing. Just silence, and the inevitable wait for death to claim him. Unbidden, tears escape from his eyes and trickle downwards across his face towards the floor.

* * *

"See? It's not that difficult." Maddy says, as Zoe's eyes light up with understanding. Today's math problem has confused her a great deal, and it seems that her teacher has not been as helpful in the teaching of it as her sister, "I know - I found it hard the first time, too."

Behind them, something smells very pleasant. Having been engaged in assisting Zoe with her homework, she hasn't been paying much attention to her mother's preparation of their evening meal. Now that the work is done, and knowledge has been imparted, however, she is more than content to hand over her sister to the attention of her doting father, as Jim comes in from work, "Hey, that smells good." He calls across to Elisabeth before joining Zoe and failing hopelessly to understand her homework.

Smiling at his rather foolish pretence that he completely understands what Zoe is telling him, Maddy looks about for her work plex, so she can talk to Mom after dinner about tomorrow's testing.

"Has anyone seen my plex?"

"It's in your room." Elisabeth advises, sagely.

"No, my _work_ plex." She stops, then snaps her fingers, crossly, "I left it in the labs when I put the sample away." Immediately, she is on her feet, and on her way out of the door, "I'll be back in a bit - I want to get it before Malcolm locks up."

"Dinner's in ten minutes!" Elisabeth calls after her.

Moving at a swift trot, as their home is not far from her place of work, Maddy is soon at the labs, and is not surprised to see a light on within. He's still there then. From what she has picked up from her other colleagues, this used to be a daily occurrence until Max came along - and the reduction in late evenings at work has, not surprisingly, caused much comment.

Passing her workstation, she heads to the bench alongside the fridge where she stored her sample. There it is - alongside Malcolm's plex and comm unit. She looks about, wondering where he is; the light's on in the 'lock up', but he doesn't seem to be in there.

As she often does, when she passes the room, she crosses to the door and looks in to view that horrible scorpion. It gives her the creeps to do it - but she likes to assure herself that it's still confined. Then she stops dead.

The front of the vivarium has shifted - and it's empty.

Her eyes widening, she immediately looks down at the floor, and there it is - a gloopy pulp of internal organs and shattered exoskeleton - and then, further back, behind the table, which has overturned - legs, and boots.

She needs no further information. Instead, she turns, and bolts.

* * *

"How was your day?" Elisabeth asks Jim as he looks up from Zoe's homework with his traditionally baffled air. Even when he understands it, which is more frequently than he lets on, he still does it. She loves it.

"Busy. Malcolm's testing some paint from that building that came down. The Foreman thinks that the paint might've been a bad batch. Apparently they got poor quality materials dumped on them when they first came through. He reckons that it could've reacted with the rain and dripped corrosive onto the aluminum joists."

They are interrupted by the front door bursting open, "Mom! Dad!" Maddy is out of breath, "Malcolm - the scorpion."

They need no further information, Elisabeth turns to her, "Stay with Zoe." Pausing only to turn off the hob, she and Jim are gone.

* * *

They part company briefly, Jim sprinting straight for the labs, while Elisabeth heads to the infirmary. God knows how long it's been since Malcolm was stung, so he may not even be alive. Despite everything that's happened since, Jim does not relish the prospect of having to do CPR on his wife's ex-boyfriend.

He pauses only to look inside the window, in case the little critter is still alive. Seeing the crushed mess, he punches in the override, and finds Malcolm lying helpless behind a table on its side. He is breathing - just.

"Malcolm?" he is down on his hands and knees now, as there is no response. Then he sees a look of absolute terror in Malcolm's eyes: his breathing is starting to fail, and he knows _exactly_ what's happening to him.

"Elisabeth's on her way with equipment. Hang on, okay?" Jim has no idea what to do. Malcolm has more or less fallen into the recovery position by himself, quite a relief since he has lost the ability to swallow; and is still, more or less, breathing. He can offer reassurance, but not much else. Until Elisabeth arrives with respiratory assistance, he has no choice but to watch Malcolm's breathing grow weaker, until it gets to the point that he has to take over. He's never performed CPR on anything other than a dummy before, "Look. If you don't hang on, then I'm going to have to give you mouth to mouth. Do you _really_ want that?"

Malcolm's mouth doesn't move, but he seems to be trying to speak - even without the means to do so. Jim has no idea what he's trying to say, "I can't understand you, Malcolm. Wait until you're through this, okay?"

There is a sequence of beeps behind his head, and the door opens to admit Elisabeth, "Step aside, Jim."

He doesn't hesitate, scrambling away as Elisabeth drops to her knees beside Malcolm, "Listen to me, Malcolm. I'm going to sedate you so that I can intubate you and start you on a ventilator. I can't do it while you're conscious - you'll reflexively try to fight me. Trust me, okay? You know I'll fight all the way."

He makes a ghastly strangled noise, which is all that he's capable of emitting with a paralysed larynx, but Elisabeth ignores him and quickly injects the sedative, "I've got a team coming, Jim - be ready to open the door, okay? And don't touch what's left of the scorpion, its venom will still be pretty potent."

It doesn't take long for the team to arrive, and Jim's role is largely reduced to that of a doorman. He watches, redundantly, as Elisabeth takes command of her people, turning Malcolm onto his back, inserting a tube into his throat and attaching the ventilator. Not a moment too soon, it appears, as the automatic systems kick in almost immediately - his breathing must have failed.

"Everyone ready?" Elisabeth calls, as they transfer Malcolm's recumbent body onto a gurney. Nods all round - and Jim steps hastily back as they transfer their most recent sting victim to the infirmary, and to a week or so on life support.

Standing alone in the now-silent lab, he turns back to the vivarium. What the hell was Malcolm thinking? Why let the little bastard out at all?

Then he pauses and looks at the catch on the top. It hasn't been unfastened: It's been smashed.


	15. Investigation

Chapter Fifteen

 _Investigation_

Elisabeth works through some results on her plex, and looks up with a smile as Jim walks into her office, "Any change?" he asks.

"Not yet." She advises him, quietly, "It's only been a day or so. I won't know that he's metabolised the venom until he starts to fight the ventilator as his nervous system kicks back in. He was incredibly lucky - if Maddy hadn't gone back for her plex, he would've died in there."

"Thank God she forgot it." He joins her at the window of her office and looks through to the intensive care ward. One of the beds has been curtained off, for privacy, and he can see a pair of legs belonging to someone seated in a chair alongside it. Yseult arrived probably ten minutes after they got to the infirmary, Maddy having messaged her to tell her what had happened. She's been there ever since, sat at Malcolm's side, his hand held to her cheek, not taking her eyes off his face.

"He looks worse than he is." Elisabeth says, "There's a lot of machinery around him, and he's being ventilated. I've taped his eyes shut so that they don't reflexively open and then dry out, and that always looks awful if you don't know why it's been done; but it's a medically induced coma, so he may be deeply unconscious, but it's under control. We just have to wait."

"How's Max taking it?"

"Difficult to say. She lost her first husband to a Nykoraptor - and now she's having to watch someone else she loves fight scorpion venom; and it nearly killed him, too. I imagine she must feel that the local wildlife doesn't want her to have a relationship." She sighs, "Max really loves him, you know."

Without thinking, Jim wraps his arms about her, "I can imagine."

She leans back in his embrace, "Do you want to talk to her?" she asks, after a while.

He nods, "I won't bother her for long. I just want to bring her up to speed on what we know."

Yseult looks up at Jim as he peeps his head around the curtain, "Sorry to bother you, d'you mind if I come in?"

She nods, and indicates another chair nearby. As Elisabeth warned, Malcolm looks awful: drips, catheters and pipes and God knows what; all keeping him going while his body works on the poison that is stopping him from breathing.

"I overheard the nurses this morning, Jim; all talking about how stupid he was to let the scorpion out. He wouldn't have done that - not in a million years. He's not that careless."

She's right - he is the ultimate stickler for rules, procedures and protocols. It's one of the things that annoys people about him, "I can't disagree with that."

Yseult transfers her attention back to Malcolm, "He must've been so frightened - he knew exactly what was going to happen once he'd been stung, and he couldn't call for help. He just had to lie there, and wait to suffocate."

"Thank God Maddy forgot her plex. She went back to get it - and she saw him."

They sit together in silence for a while, then Yseult turns back to him for a moment.

"It wasn't an accident, was it, Jim?"

He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, trying to find an answer that won't freak her out, but he can't: "No. It wasn't. I checked that vivarium when the med team was leaving with him. The catch had been broken - someone smashed it. It was just a matter of time before the front opened and the scorpion got out."

"I don't understand - who on earth would hate Malcolm that much? I can't think of anyone who would; I know people don't like him, and I get why. Despite appearances, I'm not blind to his faults - but, who has he riled to such a point that they'd want to do something like this to him?"

Jim shakes his head, "I haven't the first idea. I'm not going to lie to you - he annoys the hell out of me. Part of it's probably because of his past with Elisabeth - but, you're right - sometimes I feel like he's turned irritating people into an art form. I think that he and I are just incompatible. I can cope with him as an acquaintance, and as a work colleague, but I don't think I could ever call him a friend."

"But you don't want to murder him." Yseult prompts.

"Not all the time." He says, attempting a weak joke, then sighs, "No. I wouldn't even consider it. I can't imagine anyone who would."

"I know he can be hugely annoying at times - but he's not vindictive, or cruel, and he doesn't have a malicious bone in his body. He just doesn't really know how to deal with people very well. The only time he seems to be any good at it is when he's teaching - I found that when we were first getting to know each other: he loves to impart knowledge. It's the other stuff that he falls down on."

They lapse back into silence for a while, the only sound the _whirr_ and _whumph_ of the ventilator.

"Find them, Jim." Yseult says, eventually, her voice wavering with tears, "Whoever's doing this - find them and stop them. They can't have him. I can't lose him. Promise me you will."

He sits for a moment, looking at Malcolm, silent and deeply unconscious. The covers are up to his chest, but his shoulders above them are bared, and for the first time, Jim can see the faint remains of burn scars - not big, but very similar to the ones that he received courtesy of Lucas: the ones that Elisabeth eradicated with derma-spray. He knows that he's never going to have the deepest of friendships with this man - but he's seeing depths to Malcolm Wallace that he had never before realised existed. Besides, unlike Malcolm, Jim _does_ like Yseult, so - even if he couldn't happily throw all his resources at the investigation 'for him', as it were, he would willingly do it for her.

"I promise." He says, firmly, "Whoever's doing this - I'll find 'em and make sure they're put so deep in the brig they'll never see daylight again."

* * *

Taylor sits at his desk and glowers; this is getting ridiculous, "So someone broke the catch on the tank and let the scorpion out while Malcolm was working in the room?"

Jim nods, "It looks that way. He was lucky to survive - if Maddy hadn't forgotten her plex, he wouldn't have made it. As it was, we only just got to him in time."

"How's Max taking it?" Like most people, he has a soft spot for Yseult, and her relationship with Malcolm is hardly a secret these days. Even if people think that Malcolm's a jerk, they like her and are pleased that she's happy.

"As well as can be expected. Malcolm's kind of taken the place of her husband in her life - and it's almost like the local wildlife don't want her to have anyone. Nykos took out her husband, and a scorpion nearly took _him_ out." He sighs, "Elisabeth says she's barely left his side since she got to the infirmary."

"She's got it bad, all right." Taylor sighs, "Any progress on the investigation as a whole?"

"There was a printout on the floor in the room; one of his team took me through it - it was the results for his test on the paint. Nothing wrong with it. Whatever caused the corrosion, it wasn't the paint turning rainwater into acid, or vice versa."

"So we're back to square one, then."

"I'll see if I can find out who went into that room. Someone must've; but most of the scientists refused to go in there, and they couldn't anyway because he kept the door locked. Maddy said that he'd started using the room as a substitute office so that they'd stop bothering him once he started cutting their projects."

"So it was pretty much a ready-made trap." Taylor adds, grimly.

"I'll check the records for the keypad. The only people who knew the code that Malcolm set were him and Elisabeth, so she could get in if he got stung. Otherwise it was the security override."

"In that case, I think I'll change it. It's nearly due to be changed anyway - it'd only be a couple of weeks early."

"What, you think it might've got out?" While it is not unheard of, it's astonishingly rare for someone in security to let it slip - they're always extremely careful.

"No idea - but, equally, no harm in stopping it from being used anywhere else."

"Great. If it's got out, then _anyone_ could've been in there."

"Does Max have any idea why someone would want to do this to Malcolm?" Taylor asks.

"Maybe because they met him?" Jim quips.

"Don't push it, Shannon. He can be as irritating as hell, but he's a good man at heart, and I can't for the life of me think of anyone who would be trying to kill him."

Suitably chastened, Jim shakes his head, "She couldn't think of anyone. He's been cancelling projects left, right and centre - and that's been causing a hell of a lot of grief in his team. But would anyone be that much of a psycho that they'd think that was a good reason to take him out?"

"Given that everyone had a psych test before they came through on a pilgrimage, I don't think we'd have anyone who would think that way. Well, apart from you, that is." He adds, dryly. Jim's arrival in the colony could hardly be considered to be orthodox.

"So, assuming that the code _didn't_ get out, the only people outside the security team who could've got into that room are you, me, Malcolm and Elisabeth. He wouldn't do it to himself - even _he's_ not that screwed up - and Elisabeth had a major surgery all day that kept her busy. That leaves you, me and the security team - and I can't think of any reason why any of _them_ would want to kill him."

"I was holding a surgery." Taylor reminds him - a monthly event that involves his sitting in the Command Centre and allowing any colonist who wants to to come in and ask him questions, "I had people in with me pretty much all day. Guzman can vouch for me - he was with me. If you're that desperate, we can check tag records for everyone else."

"I'll check the key code records first. If there's no unexpected use of the override, then we won't need to."

He looks at the readout, and sighs. The final use of the code was a security override - which would've been him, opening the door for the other medics. Before that, the code Malcolm devised - which would've been Elisabeth. Then his again, which would've been him, six more uses during the day - three entries and three exits…and then…

"Oh six hundred?" he stares at the record, bemused. Someone used the security override on that office door at least two hours before the labs would've been opened; so they must've used it to get into the labs as well. Malcolm's been phenomenally unlucky - he went in that room three times after the catch had been smashed - but it was only on the fourth occasion, when he was on his own, that the scorpion finally broke out.

Jim eventually tracks down the door that the visitor used - not that it helps. The door is well concealed from view, and few would've been about at that hour anyway. Much as Taylor hates them, it's at times like this that he really misses surveillance cameras inside the compound. It would solve his problem at a stroke. As it is, however, he has nothing but a time of entry, and exit. The person got in at about ten to six in the morning, and left ten minutes later. There's only one use on the office door - but it's likely that the visitor merely jammed it open so he wouldn't be held up at a locked door if the scorpion got out while he was still there.

Short of interrogating every single person in the colony, he's got no chance of identifying the culprit. So much for his promise to Yseult. He sighs to himself; another failed attempt - and no means of knowing who's doing it. If this keeps up, then they're going to have to hope they're lucky every time. Their mysterious assailant, on the other hand, only needs to be lucky once.

* * *

Yseult looks at the sandwiches that Elisabeth is offering, "I'm sorry, Elisabeth. I'm just not hungry."

"When did you last eat something, Max? Starving yourself until you faint isn't going to make him metabolise the venom any faster, you know."

"I know - it's just…he's lying there helpless; he nearly died - and I sit here stuffing my face? I can't do it."

"I'll have one if you have one?" Elisabeth offers.

"It's been five days, Elisabeth," Yseult is almost in tears, "There's no sign of any change - shouldn't there at least be a sign that he's coming back? Surely by now?"

Elisabeth sets the sandwiches aside and rests an arm around Yseult as she finally begins to sob. She's come close several times over the course of her vigil, but it's only now that she's really let it go. How long has she been sitting here? She's only left his side when she's had to, and she certainly hasn't been outside the infirmary at any point since she arrived. The staff have long since stopped trying to persuade her to go home - and Elisabeth can understand her refusal. She'd be just the same if it were Jim lying there instead of Malcolm.

She's not sure when she first hears it, the sound of one of the monitors changing slightly. All of the equipment is set to respond to Malcolm's systems. While he wasn't breathing, the ventilator did it for him - but it seems to be reacting more patchily now, "Max," she whispers, "You wanted a sign? There it is. He's fighting the ventilator, and it's responding. He's starting to breathe on his own again."

"What?" Yseult looks up, almost desperately. Elisabeth wouldn't tell her something just because she thinks it's what she wants to hear…

Standing up, Elisabeth starts checking Malcolm's vital signs, then peels back one of the tapes holding his eyes closed and shines her penlight into his opened eye, "I was right; he's responding to stimuli again. He's definitely breathing on his own - I'll get a team in here to help me remove the breathing apparatus, and then we can start bringing him round."

"I'm not leaving him." Yseult warns, fearful that she'll be shoo-ed out.

"I wouldn't dare kick you out, Max. You'll probably be the first person he wants to see when he comes to." Elisabeth assures her, "I will need you to stand back, though. Okay?"

It doesn't take long to remove the more intrusive equipment, but bringing Malcolm back from his state of unconsciousness takes several hours, obliging Elisabeth to run the gauntlet of endless worried questioning from Yseult. That he is no longer hitched up to machines appears quite meaningless when he is still failing to wake up.

"I need this to take a while, Max." Elisabeth explains, "He's been very deeply unconscious, and it takes time to come back from that. He will - but if it happens too fast then it can be quite traumatic. Chances are that he's able to hear us at the moment, but he'll think he's dreaming."

"I'm sorry Elisabeth," Yseult looks up at her, contritely, "I know I'm being an idiot - but I nearly lost him, and I couldn't have stood that."

"If our positions were reversed, and it was Jim lying there," Elisabeth tells her, softly, "I would be exactly the same."

"I love him. I love him more than I thought I could ever love anyone again after Niall died." Yseult pauses, "In some ways, I think he's even more important to me than Niall was - does that make me sound horrible?"

"Not really, no. It's been five years - and he's not Niall. What you have with him will be entirely different to what you had before."

"We were close, Elisabeth - really close. I thought we were soulmates; something my Opa used to tell me when I was very young, that everyone had someone that was meant only for them. But then he died, and I thought: that was that - my soulmate was gone, and I wouldn't find anyone else. No matter who I came across in my life, they wouldn't be the one I was meant to be with, because he was dead."

Despite recalling a similar conversation she had with Yseult after her argument with Malcolm, Elisabeth knows that she needs to talk, and nods, sympathetically, "And then you met Malcolm?"

She nods, "I'd long since abandoned that whole business of soulmates - everyone else manages without them, and I realised it was something my Opa used to tell me because he was an incorrigible romantic and he adored me. Then, along comes Malcolm, and I find myself wondering if Opa was right - and I just made a mistake when I thought Niall was 'the one'. So much for the capable, experienced modern woman. I must sound ridiculous."

"Not at all." Elisabeth grins at her, "It's sweet."

"Sickly, more like." Yseult takes hold of Malcolm's hand again, and watches over him with that same, intent expression, silently willing him to wake. He will - just not as quickly as she wants him to.

After two more hours, Elisabeth returns with a jug of water and some cups. He'll need something to drink when he comes round, that's for sure - besides, his throat will be sore thanks to the endotracheal tube. She is also not surprised to find that Yseult has fallen asleep, her head on the mattress alongside Malcolm's shoulder. What she _is_ startled to see is that he's awake. Yseult still has a loose grip on his hand, and he has done nothing to extricate himself from it.

"How long have you been back?" she asks, very quietly.

"Not sure." His voice is faint, and extremely hoarse, "Can't wake her." He is minimising his words - it's clearly painful for him to speak.

"She's very tired, Malcolm. She's barely left your side since we brought you in. It's been five days."

He looks a little desperate, "Please. Need her." He grimaces at the discomfort from his raw throat.

Setting the jug and cups aside, Elisabeth bends over Yseult and shakes her shoulder, gently, "Come on sleepyhead. I've got someone here who wants to see you."

Vaguely, Yseult looks up, "What? Elisabeth?" then she turns her head, "Oh, my God…"

They say nothing - but the intensity of their shared moment is such that Elisabeth slips out to give them some peace, almost in tears.

* * *

"No, Jim." Elisabeth says, firmly, "Out of the question. I'm not letting you speak to him until he's ready. He can barely speak as it is, I don't want you going in there and asking him a pile of questions that'll do nothing more than aggravate his throat - the endotracheal tube grazed his larynx slightly when we took it out. He needs time for it to heal; so the only person he's allowed to speak to is Max, and even then it's as little as possible."

"Is that all that's wrong with him?" Jim asks, "No other damage or anything?"

"Yes - that's all that's wrong with him. He metabolised the poison and it's out of his system. I've run a whole batch of tests, and there're no injuries to any of his internal organs. Sometimes there can be cardiac damage, but his heart is fine."

"You mean he's got one? Ow." He winces as she slaps playfully at his arm.

"Come back when I tell you to. Okay? He's fine in himself, he just needs a bit more time to regain his strength. With a bit of luck, he'll be able to go home in a couple of days. Now go away."

Despite the jocular tone, he can hear the steel behind it, and he knows she won't let him near Malcolm, just as she is promising. Given his highly vulnerable state - surrounded by all sorts of things that could be used to kill him yet look like an unexpected-but-plausible complication - Jim is not remotely comfortable with leaving.

His retaliation arrives an hour later.

"Can I help you?" Nurse Ogawa asks, rather brusquely, at the sight of Dunham, who is looking very uncomfortable.

"Sorry, Ma'am. Mr Shannon's orders. I'm to stand guard until told otherwise."

"Excuse me?" She is not impressed. Nor is Yseult, who is quick to face him down.

"What's he doing?" she asks, in a very low voice, as Malcolm is asleep, "Why are you here? Don't you realise Malcolm doesn't know this wasn't an accident? If you're here, what's he going to think?"

Dunham looks even more uncomfortable, "I'm really sorry, Ma'am. But I have my orders." He goes rather pale as Elisabeth comes marching up, looking even less impressed.

"What's going on?"

"I…" he gets no further.

"Jim's orders." Yseult whispers, clearly furious, "Apparently, having a guard standing over Malcolm, who thinks that he was just the victim of an unlucky accident, is going to make him feel a _whole_ lot better."

"I'll have a word with Commander Taylor."

"Sorry Ma'am. He agreed to it." Dunham says, his tone almost audibly adding _don't hit me_. He must be getting very fed up of repeatedly having to say 'sorry Ma'am'.

Elisabeth admits defeat, "Stay outside the partition. I don't want him seeing you."

"Yes Ma'am." At last: he doesn't have to apologise.

Trying hard not to scowl, Yseult returns to her chair, and finds it easy to smile when Malcolm opens his eyes, "Hey."

"Max." He is looking at her again, with that same intensity in his eyes as when he came out of his coma. His voice is less hoarse now, though he is still largely forbidden to speak. Given that they now have an audience, even if he doesn't know it, Yseult is quite relieved that he can't say something that she would rather be kept private. Awkwardly, with her help, he sits up and holds his hand out for her plex. Bemused, she hands it to him, and he calls up the messenger function, _IF I CAN'T TALK, I CAN STILL TYPE_.

Good point.

He clears the screen, _HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU THAT I LOVE YOU?_

She looks at him, her eyes tearful, and she smiles, "Just the once - but I've always held onto it because I know you meant it."

 _I'M SORRY. I SHOULD HAVE SAID IT MORE THAN I HAVE, BECAUSE I DO. AND I NEARLY DIED THINKING I HADN'T_.

He is also now very near to tears, remembering how close he came to losing his life, how horrible it had been to lie there - waiting for the moment that his breathing would fail, and he would asphyxiate. He had been absolutely aware throughout - all the time. Knowing what was happening, and knowing that no one was coming…

Yseult says nothing. Instead she simply holds onto him and lets him cry.

* * *

Elisabeth knows that her patient is largely better. Mainly because he won't stop complaining that he's still in the infirmary. Malcolm's voice is still rather rough, but he is no longer in pain when he speaks; and he is making sure she knows it. No one enjoys being stuck in a hospital bed - she is well aware of that - but his fed up-ness at being still there, is matching _her_ fed up-ness at his fed up-ness at being still there.

"Look, Malcolm. One more set of tests, and we'll be done. Then I'll discharge you."

"Not if I discharge myself first." He counters.

"That depends on how badly you want me to give you another sedative."

"You wouldn't…"

"I _so_ would." She smiles back at him, sweetly, "Max'll be here in an hour to walk you home. She can't do that if you're flat out asleep, can she?"

"Well, if you put it like _that_." He concedes, grudgingly.

The walk back to his house is very slow, as he is surprised to find he is still rather lacking in strength after nearly a week in bed, "This might sound like a dumb question, Max," He asks, as he leans on her, "but why is Dunham following us?"

"I'll tell you when we get back." She answers, "It's a bit of a long story."

"He's not coming in, is he?"

"Not if he knows what's good for him."

* * *

Sitting back on the couch, Malcolm waits, expectantly.

"It wasn't an accident." She begins, a little tentatively, "The scorpion escaping. Someone broke the catch on the vivarium." She waits, and watches as he processes the information. She is not surprised when he goes rather pale.

"Someone let it out? While I was in there?" He looks up at her, "How? I was on my own."

She sits down beside him, "Jim checked the lock records. Someone used the command override at about six in the morning to get into the labs. They broke the catch, but made sure that the front of the vivarium stayed in place. Sooner or later it was going to open - and it was just the timing of it. You were in there when it got out - it could've got out when you weren't; it's impossible to say for sure."

"I don't understand - who would do that? Why?" He looks nervous, "I know that people think I'm an idiot - but I can't have pissed someone off _that_ much, surely?"

"We don't know. Hence the security detail." She admits, quietly.

"This is ridiculous. It's someone's idea of a practical joke - it must've been - and it went wrong. I can't believe anyone in this colony is willing to deliberately kill me. I know it's not the first time someone's taken a life; but we all came here to start again - not to be just as bad as we were before we left." Nonetheless, he is wringing his hands a little. She knows that he is frightened.

She stands up, and immediately he reacts, his eyes suddenly reflecting his fear, "Where are you going?"

"Just to put the kettle on. I'm not leaving."

As she returns with two steaming mugs of tea, he looks up at her, his eyes haunted, "What about the other two accidents? The ones I missed because someone else got in the firing line?"

She looks at him, a little helplessly. He was going to figure it out in the end - but why did he have to figure it out _now_? When he's still in such a fragile state?

Her response is halted by a knock at the door. Frowning, as they aren't expecting visitors, Malcolm opens it to find Jim outside.

"Can I come in?"

Malcolm stands aside to allow him entry, and then closes the door, before turning to him, "Did you know?"

"Know what?" Jim looks bemused.

"Did you know someone's been trying to kill me?"

"Er…" he looks at Yseult.

"He guessed by himself, Jim. I had to tell him about the lock on the vivarium - it wasn't fair not to. It wasn't hard to figure out the rest."

Jim shuffles slightly, embarrassed, "We weren't completely sure - it's still something that we're investigating." He admits.

"And you didn't want to worry me." Malcolm adds, a little bitterly.

"Not until we knew for sure. No one saw this coming - not after all the precautions you put in place."

For a moment, it looks as though Malcolm might have one of his 'I hate officialdom' snits, but instead, he sags a little, and goes back to the couch to sit with Yseult and grip her hand, tightly.

"Look." Jim crosses to sit in a chair, "Until this happened, we were investigating a building collapse, and a lab accident - in both cases, it looked as though someone had been hit by an incident that would otherwise have affected you if you hadn't been somewhere else. It could've been a coincidence."

"Until 'this' happened."

"Can you think of anyone who might want to harm you?"

He shakes his head, "No. Not to the point of doing something like this. I know I've pissed off a lot of my staff recently - but I was only doing what I had to do; we can't afford to put effort into speculative science at the moment - we need to concentrate on making sure that we can survive more than a decade without becoming little better than hunter-gatherers with doctorates. Besides, whose journals are they going to publish their papers in anyway?"

"How about you give me a list of names, in descending order of temper loss?" Jim suggests, which manages to raise a faint smile from his colleague.

"Can I drop by and see you tomorrow about that?" He asks, "I'm really tired - I didn't expect the walk home to knock me out this much."

"Sure. How about 9 tomorrow morning? I'll find a spot in the Command Centre - I know how much you love Boylan's." He gets to his feet, "Don't mind me, I'll see myself out."

As soon as he's gone, Malcolm sits back, and sighs.

"Are you alright?" Yseult looks concerned, "I'm really sorry we didn't tell you - I only realised myself more or less the day that you got stung in the lab. By that time, there wasn't a lot I could do to warn you."

"I'm not angry." He says, quietly, "I'm just glad I didn't die. I wasn't kidding when I typed that message on your plex. When I was on the floor, and I could feel that my diaphragm was starting to falter, all I could think about was that I couldn't remember whether I'd ever told you that I loved you."

"You had - but having it spelled out to me like that was the best way anyone's ever said it to me." She says, "Not even Christian Spätz did a job as good as that when we were at _Grundschule_ \- it was pretty close, but he did rather spoil it by throwing up on me almost immediately afterwards."

He smiles, "He sounds like a real gentleman. Shame about the dismount."

"Do you want to go to bed?" she asks him, concerned at the shadows under his eyes.

"On one condition, Max." He looks at her, his expression laden with intent, "That you join me."

"I thought you were tired?"

"Not _that_ tired." He murmurs, cupping her face in his hands for a kiss.


	16. Expedition

Chapter Sixteen

 _Expedition_

Jim regards the man sitting opposite him in the Command Centre with barely contained frustration. The list of names that Malcolm has given him is not overly long, and is more based on his recollection of the awkwardness of the interview than a genuine sense of animosity from the individual concerned. Despite the acceptance that someone has been creating 'accidents' that seem to be solely aimed at him, Malcolm cannot find it in himself to believe that anyone in his team would genuinely want him dead.

So far, however, Jim has managed only to further antagonise people who seem to have astonishingly fragile egos that are already grazed to a thread. They see accusations where there are enquiries, demand that he furnish them with some form of unspecified 'proof' even though he is asking for evidence from _them_ , and get highly excited over something that is, if he is truly honest with himself, merely the act of ticking names off a list. He can't believe any of this lot of self-absorbed brains-on-legs would have sufficient width of vision to look beyond the edges of their plexes, much less view a suitably bigger picture to plan and execute a carefully managed 'accident'.

"Look," he tries again, "I'm not outright accusing you of _anything_. We just want to cover all the bases - besides, it may be that you could've seen something that might be useful to the investigation." His tone is a great deal more placating than his attitude. Besides, these people seem so monumentally keen to divert any suggestion of responsibility away from themselves that, so far, not one of them - not _one_ \- has asked him if he knows how Malcolm's doing. Perhaps, after all, he had good grounds to believe that no one would have cared had he confessed that he had been tortured. Once again, Jim feels a little guilty; they aren't really all that different from him, then. All he had wanted to do when Malcolm was lurking alongside them in the forest that night was tell him to go away and give them some privacy.

"I'm well aware of that," the man is still very irked, "but, as far as I'm concerned, the… _incidents_ …that you refer to seem to be nothing more than a sequence of either accidents or carelessness. I don't work in the main research laboratory, so I would have no reason to handle the glassware. I'm fully aware of what happened - we all received the lecture about using acetone. In fact, I'd like to register here and now that I found the implication that I could've made a mistake of so fundamental a nature highly offensive."

Jim can't stop himself from glaring back, "Perhaps so, but as Malcolm is still recovering at home from a traumatic poisoning that came very close to killing him, I'm sure you won't mind if I decide that I didn't hear that last statement." His voice has gone surprisingly low - with a nerve-wrackingly menacing air to it that takes the wind right out of the plaintiff's sails. The man nearly _died_ , for Pete's sake! And all this jerk cares about is making a complaint about something entirely trivial?

This time, he can't keep his mild disgust from his expression, and the rather nervous biologist makes a hasty apology and departs.

"Bad?" Taylor asks, as he comes in from a meeting with Guzman.

"You have no idea." Jim growls, "Would you believe that the only question I haven't heard from any of them so far is 'how's Malcolm?'"

"You're kidding." Taylor is aghast. While he finds Malcolm as annoying as the next man, he cannot believe that none of the people who are, supposedly, part of his team seem to care about his health, "Was that the last one?"

"I wish. I've got two more people to sit through. If I have anyone else whining that they found Malcolm's lecture about acetone offensive, then I swear they're going out that window."

"It does beg the question as to whether or not that was an accident." Taylor muses, "Given that they all regard it as lab safety 101."

"Either that or they're overdoing the offence to hide that they were the ass who did it."

"The lady doth protest too much?" Taylor quotes.

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

* * *

Rather than drag Malcolm up to the infirmary, Elisabeth has dropped by to carry out a few last tests. She is surprised to find that Yseult is not present.

"She's got work, Elisabeth. I can't keep her here indefinitely." He reminds her, though she can see that he is not happy to be on his own.

"How is she?"

"Conscientious as anything - I'm beginning to wonder if I'm smothering her, to be honest. She's been here every moment that she can. I'm just hoping that I'm not making her think that she needs to be."

"Not a chance." Elisabeth smiles, "She never left your side while you were unconscious - well, almost never: we persuaded her it might be a good idea to visit the loo now and again. The nurses gave up trying to kick her out before the end of the second day. That's why she was asleep when you came round." She holds out her hand, "Arm."

He extends his arm so that she can take a small blood sample, and then check his blood pressure, "It's weird," He continues, "I'd never even heard of her before Commander Taylor introduced us at the staff meeting; and she didn't even really register that much with me there - it was when we had our meeting before the commemoration ceremony. It was accidental, I think. I was staring at the spot where Steve died - and she spoke my name. Then I turned to her and…" his voice tails off.

"…And it was like there wasn't another person in the entire universe?" Elisabeth finishes.

He nods, "So much for the rational, scientific type."

"That's how it goes, sometimes."

"Is this how it is between you and Jim?" he asks, suddenly, "That sense that you're complete?"

She thinks it over for a while as she taps at her plex to record the readings from her instruments, "In some ways, yes - though I think it really settled once the kids came along." She looks at him, "It's not something we had."

He sighs, and shakes his head, "We didn't. Did we? But then, I wasn't just a pompous idiot - I was an immature, pompous idiot." He pauses, "God, I'm starting to sound like a romance novel."

"I suppose it had to happen sooner or later." She turns and looks at him, "Max is a good woman, and she loves you deeply. Look after her, okay? She struggled a lot when she thought she might lose you."

"I struggled a lot when I thought I might lose her." Malcolm admits, "There's nothing worse than thinking you're dying - and not remembering if you've told someone that you love them. I had - but I couldn't remember."

"I trust you've amended that oversight?"

"Extensively."

"No details, please. I may be a trauma surgeon, but my strong stomach has its limits."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Elisabeth's plex beeps, and she checks the results, "All clear. I think you're pretty much ready to go back to work. I'll keep you signed off until Monday, though. Take a few more days to rest up."

* * *

Pete is busy with a hatchet, "It's looking good, Max - I'm not sure that we're quite ready, but this stool's got some good growth. I can cut some withies for Judith if you want; it won't affect the larger coppices for the charcoal."

"Sounds good to me, Pete; she's always short of withies. You'll be her new best friend."

"As long as that's _all_ I am, darling."

"Idiot." She smiles at him.

"Shouldn't that be _dummkopf_?" He turns to her, "You're considerably more chipper this morning, Max. I take it he's better?"

"Much. Elisabeth's dropping by this morning to run some final tests - but he's getting a bit stir crazy, I think. He's very keen to get back to work."

"I'm sorry that it happened, mind. Malcolm might be a prat, but he's _your_ prat. It wasn't nice seeing you floored like that."

"Thanks, I think."

He smiles, cheerfully, "I'll let you know when we're ready to go with this. I think you've still got a bit left for one more burn from when we did the initial chop-downs?"

"Definitely. Geoff is pretty keen to see how things go with parts for the power loom he wants to build - but I'm going to need iron for that. I'm meeting him this afternoon to see his plans."

"Sounds like fun."

* * *

Robert - with a silent 't' - is waiting for Jim when he approaches the remains of the fallen building, "Raj is going to get pretty pissed if you don't finish with this soon, Mr Shannon. He's keen to get it broken up at the foundry so they can salvage it."

"Fair enough - but I need a bit more time with it. There are some things I need to be sure about."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Not that I can think of - but if I need you, I'll holler."

Robert nods, and heads away, leaving Jim with the wreckage. The fallen roof is still at the point to which it was hefted when it was jacked up, and has been helpfully rested upon cinder blocks. As he is able to get underneath the edge of the roof, Jim takes a great deal more time to examine the joists than he did the first time.

"My God…" the degree of corrosion is astonishing - as though whatever ate at the joists did so with almost insatiable greed. And yet, it seems so neat - as though whatever did the corroding wasn't so much splattered, as applied. He has no idea what was used - but whatever it was, the damage is extensive, and he can see why the roof gave way.

But what was used? He isn't a chemist - he has no idea what chemicals do to things; and the one thing he _really_ doesn't want to do this time is bother Malcolm. Not after what happened last time; besides, it's looking even more as though someone meant for the building to come down, and he's convinced he's spooked Malcolm quite enough as it is.

"Why me?" Elisabeth looks at him, bemused, over the dishes that they are packing into the dishwasher, "I'm hardly qualified to undertake chemical testing, after all. I'm a medical doctor."

"Yeah - but, you can use the equipment, can't you? Besides, I don't want to bother Malcolm with this - and I don't trust anyone else."

"You do realise that clinical pharmacology is only tangentially connected to chemistry? I can certainly use diagnostic equipment - but you'd need a better qualified chemist than me to interpret the results."

"The more I look into this," Jim admits, "the more I think that someone's trying to harm Malcolm. I wish I knew why - but I don't. If I'm to have any chance of finding this psycho, then I need to know what was used to rust that aluminum. If I know what it was, then we might be able to find who has it."

She sighs, "Alright. I'll try - but don't have too many expectations. This is outside my field of experience."

"I'll be eternally grateful." He wraps his arms around her, and pops a kiss on her nose.

"I think I can accept that as payment." She smiles, leaning closer to him.

"Daddy!" Zoe's voice calls through from her bedroom, "There's a funny beetle in my room!"

Jim rolls his eyes, theatrically, and sighs, "So close." Then he turns, "Coming, honey!"

* * *

"Is Dunham still out there?" Malcolm asks as he helps Yseult gather together the remains of their dinner for disposal.

"No, I think it's someone else. He can't stay at your side all the time."

"Just most of the time." He sounds deeply disgruntled, "I know - it's for my benefit, and all that. But I'd like to have at least some sense of privacy back. I can't go anywhere without a soldier trailing after me."

"I know." Yseult admits, "But I'd rather have that than have anything else happen to you. You scared the life out of me when you were in the infirmary."

He rests his hands on her shoulders, "I can imagine; well, I _can't_ imagine because I was unconscious at the time, but I get your drift." He sighs, then, and looks a little despondent.

"What?"

"I think the worst thing about it was when Elisabeth gave me the sedative. I tried to beg her not to - but I just made this ghastly noise at her. I got it into my head that, if she did, I wouldn't wake up again: I really did think that she was putting me down as though I were a sick dog."

She snuggles close to him, and his arms move from her shoulders to encircle her, "I still can't work out who would want to do that to me." He says, eventually, "I can't think of anyone I've angered that much."

"Jim'll find them." Yseult says, firmly, "I made him promise me."

"He promised you?"

"I was nearly blubbing at the time." She admits, "I sort of trapped him into it."

Malcolm sighs again, frustrated, "I wish whoever it is out there would bugger off."

"Why's that?"

"Why'd you think?"

"Maybe I should offer him earplugs?" Yseult's expression is mischievous, "That would _really_ warn him what you want to do. He'd run a mile. That would guarantee us some privacy."

"Don't tempt me." He grumbles, then looks at her much more intently, "Actually, no. _Do_ tempt me."

She smiles, her arms coming up to encircle his neck, "I can't not follow Doctor's orders."

"The old ones are the best."

"Shut up and kiss me, Doctor."

* * *

Elisabeth looks at the readings on her plex, and frowns, "Whoever did this took a huge risk, Jim."

"In what way?" He is leaning over her shoulder, reading results that mean nothing to him.

"The corrosion on this metal is aluminium chloride - which could only have formed through the use of hydrochloric acid. It's an incredibly volatile reaction, and it would've created a huge amount of hydrogen gas. Someone took great care with this: you can't just splash it on. Whoever did it must've known that the reaction would be violent, and there'd be a risk of an explosion - particularly as the hydrogen mixed with the oxygen in the air."

"So we're looking at someone who knows their way around chemicals?"

"I'd say so - but it doesn't narrow things down as much as you'd think, I'm afraid. It's not just a chemist who would know that - hydrochloric acid has a lot of uses around the colony in various manufacturing processes, so it's not stored in one place, and everyone in the construction teams and a lot of the manufacturing crews would know the risks - it would be in their safety manuals. It's certainly in ours: we have a critical emergency protocol in case of a major spillage."

Jim groans, inwardly. While he has solid evidence that someone compromised the building, he is no closer to identifying a culprit. Whoever did it, though, must've _really_ hated Malcolm if it was as risky as Elisabeth is suggesting. That said, whoever did it might well have been responsible for washing out the flasks with acetone. Sooner or later, someone would've used a suitable chemical in one.

He frowns; it's all still too much dependent on chance - while Malcolm's use of the fallen building would've been common knowledge, who would've known he was going to prepare an etching solution? And, if he can smell acetone, as Max suggested, then surely he would've noticed long before anything went wrong? It doesn't make _sense_. It's almost as though whoever did it _wanted_ the two accidents to fail.

Until, of course, they set that scorpion loose.

Perhaps that's the reason why. Two incidents that were meant to look like accidents, and then setting the scorpion loose so people would think _that_ was an accident as well…

But it still doesn't answer the fundamental question: Who the hell is trying to kill Malcolm?

* * *

Taylor looks up at his irked visitor, "I'm not releasing the security detail until this person is found, Malcolm - and that's an end to it."

The news does not go down well, "Commander - I appreciate why you're doing it; I really do. It's just driving me mad having a soldier trailing around after me all over the place. I have absolutely _no_ privacy whatsoever, and everyone just stares at me like I've committed some hideous crime."

In the week that he has been back at work, there have been no further incidents, which Taylor has largely put down to the presence of a black-armour clad soldier standing nearby. That it's driving Malcolm crazy is immaterial; someone has made three attempts to end his life, and Taylor is damned if he's going to let _that_ continue. Besides, having a soldier nearby gives him a sense of additional security. Mira hasn't been back since she imparted that brief piece of intel about the Phoenix soldiers - nor has her promised early warning system been triggered - but if those soldiers want Malcolm, and he can't see how it is that they _won't_ \- to have him closely guarded seems a very sensible move.

"Look." Malcolm has stuffed his hands in his pockets again, "I appreciate that there are risks involved - but they seem only to be a problem within the compound. If I went to one of the outposts, but we give out that I've gone to a different one, might that help? Rob's got some longer-term projects out at Outpost Eight that he says are coming to fruition. It's a long way out, I know - but it's off to the East, so the Sixers won't know where it is. If we give out that I'm going to somewhere else, say, Outpost Five; whoever's doing this won't know where I am. Rob needs a chemist to analyse his results - so it's not like I'll be trailing after him for no apparent reason. There's a valid purpose to the trip out."

Taylor eyes Malcolm with concern. He can see that his Science Officer is under strain - having to deal with the implications of some unknown threat is never easy, and certainly not with a soldier wandering around in his wake. He's been friends with Rob Stanley almost since the Botanist came through with the Sixth - and Taylor hasn't forgotten Malcolm's furious defence of the man when they'd first attempted to track down their spy.

"What about Max?" he asks, almost reflexively. Everyone's noticed how close they've grown since he was injured.

"We've talked it through. She doesn't really want me to go - I know that: but even with her to go home to, if I have to deal with this for much longer, then I think I'm going to end up hitting someone. Probably your inoffensive guard. If the person doing this can't find me, then they can't harm me, can they?"

"I'll think about it, Malcolm," Taylor says, "No promises. Work up an itinerary and work plan - and I'll consider it like I would any other. If there's a worthwhile scientific reason for you to be out there, then we'll think about whether it trumps security considerations."

"Thank you, Commander." His expression a rather odd combination of relief and worry, Malcolm departs, nodding a greeting at Jim, who is entering.

"What was that about?"

"Malcolm wants to go OTG."

"Seriously? Is he nuts?"

"No - but he thinks he might _go_ nuts if he has to stay here with a soldier on his tail for much longer."

"Who's he planning to go out with? He's not going on his own is he?"

"God, no. I'd never agree to that - even if he wasn't under threat. His pal, Robert Stanley. He's got some work out at Outpost Eight that he wants Malcolm to help with."

"Why Malcolm?"

"He wants Malcolm to run some tests on whatever he's producing out there. I think Rob's probably the only friend Malcolm's really got; everyone else is just an acquaintance. Maybe he's trying to be helpful - either that or he wants the best scientist to go over his results."

"They'd better be good, then."

* * *

Their dinner has largely been eaten in silence; Yseult is worried, and Malcolm feels guilty that she is worried. There is no reproach in her expression, just concern. In some ways, he can appreciate that; he would be the same if their positions were reversed. Worse, probably.

"I won't go if you don't want me to." He says, quietly, as she starts to gather the plates together.

Yseult shakes her head, "That wouldn't be fair, Malcolm. I know you need to get away from the constant presence of a soldier, and I'm not blind - I can see that you're stressed. I just wish you weren't going because I don't want to be apart from you. That's all it is."

"It's hardly a non-valid reason. I'd love it if you could come with me."

"Except there's no reason for me to do so. Commander Taylor can't afford freeloaders on OTG jollies."

"Leave those - come and sit down." He guides her to the couch, and sets his arms about her as she leans against him, "Believe me, if I didn't have you, then I would've cracked up days ago. Even with a soldier watching me, I'm still on tenterhooks the entire time. The first two incidents didn't really have any impact on me - it's still only speculation that I was the intended victim; but the scorpion…" he pauses, and swallows, audibly, "…that _did_ impact on me. It might be dead, but I keep thinking that, whoever set it loose has gone out and found another one - and they're just waiting for an opportunity to release it somewhere I can't get away from. I just need a few days away from that. If I could take you with me, believe me, I would."

"Is that why you cried out last night?" she asks, quietly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise I'd woken you." At least she hasn't noticed how frequently he's had that nightmare since he got home. Despite what people think, she doesn't remain with him _every_ night.

"I'm the one who's sorry, Malcolm," Yseult snuggles closer to his chest, "my only real motive is that I don't want you to go OTG. That's how I lost Niall - and I thought I had nothing left after that. I was wrong - you proved that I was wrong - but I'm scared that history is going to repeat itself. This time, I really _do_ think I'd have nothing left. I need to grow out of that - or I'll want to keep you inside the gates for the rest of your life; which rather gets in the way of your job."

Rather than reply, he kisses her, and they cuddle in silence for a while, grateful for each other's company. Malcolm has no wish to leave her behind - but, if he doesn't get out of the compound, if only for a few days - then he's liable to have some hideous explosion of temper, and there's no saying who might be on the receiving end of it. Since his discharge from the infirmary, much of his time has been occupied by the single thought _Someone wants me dead_. Not knowing who that is, why they're doing it, or whether they're going to try again is eating away at him to such a degree that he is struggling to retain his concentration at work. The presence of a soldier is not helping in the slightest. If he didn't have Yseult to come back to, then he is quite convinced that he would have already had the anticipated explosion, and would probably be back in the infirmary under sedation while Elisabeth tries to find some meds to calm him down again.

"At least you've got your guardian angel." Yseult murmurs, after a while.

"My what?" He shifts slightly to look at her, "Rob?"

"He's managed to save you twice - without even trying." She tells him, "If nothing else, he'll look after you in my absence."

"I'm _not_ kissing him." Malcolm says, firmly, "He's not _that_ good a friend."

"He'd better not be. Now, what were you saying about kissing?"

* * *

Taylor signs off the work plan with a rather reluctant swipe, "I'll go on the record as saying that I'm not exactly over the moon that you're doing this, Malcolm; but I get why you're doing it. We'll do what we can to track this person down while you're gone."

"I'd appreciate that, Commander. Believe me, you'll be glad I'm away - I need to get out of the compound. I think it'll do me the world of good."

The plan seems to offer some promise in terms of results. Rob has been undertaking some experiments with various fungi in the cool darkness of the underground labs out at Outpost Eight. The species concerned are, in the main, quite toxic; but, as is often the case with venoms, some of the compounds show medicinal applications that they can't ignore. While Rob is a highly capable botanist, he needs a chemist to analyse the extracts - and a combination of the appropriate apparatus, and the best chemist in the colony should hopefully provide some worthwhile results if Rob's initial workups are to be believed. At least, that's what Malcolm has said - Taylor has no inkling what the results mean.

Being one of the few staff who have access to a rover, Malcolm's ability to get them there is also a good reason for sending him. Even now, Taylor can see he is much brighter - though there is one shadow in that sun: he is having to leave Yseult behind.

Needless to say, she is standing alongside the rover, waiting for him as he leaves the Command Centre. The chances of anyone in the colony _not_ knowing that they're an item is blasted out of the proverbial water by their embrace, and the kiss that follows it. Standing on his balcony, Taylor watches, and allows himself a brief moment of regret: Malcolm's shyness has not cost him the woman he loves. Taylor wishes that he had been equally fortunate.

"Be careful, okay?"

"I promise." He mumbles into her hair, "Go and build a new furnace, or something. I'll be back before you know it - and perhaps Jim Shannon will have found the nutter who's trying to do me in."

"God, I hope so."

He briefly tightens his grip about her shoulders, "I love you, Max. I'll see you in a few days. Right? And I'll be a new man. I promise."

"Not _too_ new, thank you very much. I'm not after a new formula: I like you just the way you are."

They share a brief smile at one another before he clambers into the vehicle, "Ready, Rob?"

"When you are, Malcolm. I've got a hell of a lot to talk to you about when we get there."

"Excellent. Sounds like it'll be a useful trip, then."

"Sure will."

Her eyes damp, but refusing to allow herself the embarrassment of a meltdown in public, Yseult steps back as Malcolm starts up the engine, and guides his rover out through the gate.


	17. Revelation

**Author's Note:** Another quick thank you to my fabulous reviewer, Leona2106, and also to Jemmz for another lovely review. I really do appreciate the support. More thanks to everyone who's following along. Again, it's great to know that people are enjoying this tale.

On we go with another chapter, in which - finally - the unknown conspirator is revealed...

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

 _Revelation_

"Come on, Max." Mike looks across at her, "I kind of need you to be in the room about now."

Yseult looks up, sharply, and realises that one of the tuyeres on her side of the blast furnace has blocked again, "Sorry Mike. I'm really not with it."

"He's only been gone three hours." Mike snorts, "You've really got it bad, haven't you?"

"'Fraid so." She smiles at him, "I'll try and stay with it."

"Don't wanna lose this bloom." He reminds her, "D'you want to hit Boylan's tonight? Better than brooding at home."

"I already have a date, thanks. Elisabeth Shannon's taking me there for something to eat."

He looks at her with disappointment, "Aww - you're no fun anymore." He drawls.

"How about tomorrow?" She asks, "I don't think I'll be very good company, but I think a few drinks wouldn't go amiss. See who you can round up."

Now that the iron looks about to form properly, Yseult puts thoughts of Malcolm aside and concentrates instead on her work. Given the size of the furnace, the hope that they can actually run this bloom out into primitive pigs is becoming more of a reality. Mike has already dug out the channels into which they hope to send the stuff. Geoff'll be very pleased if they can do that; he is becoming ever more keen to try and design the envisaged power loom.

"D'you think we're being a bit too ambitious?" she asks, as she watches the tuyeres on her side.

"In what way?"

"I know that I keep talking about creating a small-scale cloth industry, but I'm wondering if we're pushing it a bit too hard, too soon. We haven't had the chance to experiment with the spinning jenny yet. That's one of the things I want to talk to Elisabeth about tonight - to see if we can create a fibre fine enough to weave gauze for medical use."

"Perhaps - but if we can prove that we can cast iron, at least, then that means we're ready to build the loom of Geoff's dreams."

She laughs, "You lot have such lofty ambitions."

As the day passes, however, it's clear to everyone that Yseult is missing Malcolm intensely. The fact that, when she's finished for the day, he won't be at home is playing on her mind a great deal. By mid afternoon, Pete is not surprised to find her sat in her 'office' lost in thought, her plex abandoned on the table.

"Lord above, woman." He says, with blatantly false ire, "What'll you be like in three days when he gets back? Are you going to jump him the moment he gets out of his rover?"

"I just want him to _get_ back." She admits, very quietly, "I keep thinking about what happened to Niall. It was just like this - a few days out in the forests; no anticipated risks, not far away…and I lost him."

"It won't happen again, Max." He says, sitting on the table beside her plex, "He'd scare off any Nyko that tried with just a mouthful of objections - that man can gripe for England."

"He really isn't that bad, Pete."

"I know - he can't be that bad if you like him. But then, you've always liked people who don't deserve it." He grins at her, "Take Mike. God, he is _such_ a poser with all those muscles - and he's not even available. It's like he does it on purpose to get me horny."

"Do you have to?" Yseult objects, jokingly, "Come on, you've always said that Mike's not your type."

"Fair point. I'd rather be the only Gay in the village. Mike's in love alright - though I think it's probably with his biceps."

Yseult sighs, "God, Pete - what would I do without you? You're my best friend, I think."

"As long as that's _all_ I am, sweetheart." He blows her a kiss, "If you're up for a night out tomorrow, let me know. Everyone knows I'm a queen, so it's not like people'll think you're into a new pair of boxers while he's gone."

"Everyone's being so nice to me." She says, "It's making me nervous."

"The price of being nice, I think, Max. You're very good at making friends - and keeping 'em." He looks at his watch, "Oops, sorry - need to dash. I have a hot date with a man to talk about apple yields."

* * *

"Did he really call it that?" Elisabeth's eyes widen in astonishment, "a 'hot date'? With Tom Boylan?"

"I'd love to see the look on Tom's face if he really _did_ think that Pete fancies him." Yseult laughs "It was just his way of describing their latest Project Scrumpy meeting. He's always been a bit like that - it's why I like him so much. He's a lot of fun, even if he _does_ get a bit close to the wind sometimes."

"Is it a particularly British thing to be so up front about his sexuality?" Elisabeth muses, "I've never seen anyone else quite so open about it."

"I don't know; but he had to be quite careful before he came here - so many equality laws were repealed in the late 2130s. He would've been arrested if people knew - I think that's why he's letting it rip so much. His rather riotous sense of humour and his incisive opinions are a fundamental core of his personality. The fact that he's gay is nothing to do with that - but we don't take issue with it, so he's able to be much more open about his preferences while he's at it. I've always known that he wasn't interested in women - but I think that's why we're so honest with each other. He trusted me to keep it quiet when we were obliged to; you wouldn't believe how many people informed on their gay acquaintances when the law changed. I don't know if it was as bad in the US - but it got really awful in England. I'm just relieved he's a forester and woodsman - I was able to recruit him for my team and get him out of that. Besides, it's nice to have a male best friend that people _don't_ think you're shagging."

"Your team seem very close knit."

"We are - I've known most of them either personally or by reputation for years. Mike and I have been mates since we all got together prior to the departure of the pilgrimage. We're both metalworkers, and we clicked. Mind you, I think I've been lucky - none of them have turned out to be horrible."

"And you've never dated any of them?"

Yseult shakes her head, "No; I had one disastrous rebound relationship about two years ago that died very quickly once we both realised I was still recovering from Niall's loss. It was very awkward - he accused me of using him. That put me off for a long, long time. Not that I particularly saw anyone in my team like that. Pete's gay, of course. Geoff and Graham are both married, and I've never been attracted to Mike - he's just too muscle-bound for me. Besides, we're almost like brother and sister - I'd feel like I was committing incest."

Elisabeth laughs, "That's rather decisive."

They pause as Skye sets their dinners before them, "I hope the food is as good as your gossip appears to be. Enjoy your meals." She smiles, and departs.

"She's looking very settled, isn't she?" Yseult comments, "Would I be wrong in thinking that she and Josh are on the verge of a relationship?"

"I'd say that you'd be completely _not_ wrong. I think we're on tenterhooks waiting for him to get up the nerve to ask her out before she gets fed up with waiting and does the honours for him."

"Like us." She pauses, then goes for it, "Please don't think I'm being forward, Elisabeth - I hope you don't mind me asking. What was it about Malcolm that attracted you?"

Elisabeth gathers her knife and fork, "It was a long time ago, Max - looking back, I'm not really all that sure anymore. I think we were both two idiotically brainy people who ended up in a relationship without really knowing how. Oh, he was certainly good looking - he still is - but it was a very immature thing that largely disguised our incompatibility. We grew out of it in about a year - and I finally put it out of its misery by leaving to study in London. By the time I moved to Chicago, we'd completely lost touch, and I didn't really notice. Then I met Jim - and that was that, really."

"I see." Yseult chews thoughtfully.

"What is it about him that attracted you, then?" Elisabeth asks, smiling, "Come on - fair's fair."

Yseult reddens, "Well, I'd be lying if it wasn't his looks. I suppose I first noticed him after we met in the staff meeting; but it wasn't until we had our meeting in the labs that I really discovered that I fancied him. I just assumed it was some godawful crush; I mean, you can't claim to love someone on the basis of looks alone, can you? But the more time I spent with him, the more time I _wanted_ to spend with him. It just seemed to grow from that."

"I always remember him being ridiculously pompous." Elisabeth admits, "But he was capable of being astonishingly kind, and he was always an absolute gentleman with me - and with the Christ Church Scouts and Domestic Staff - you could always tell the really privileged ones - they treated the staff like their personal servants. Mind you, it was hard to see through this very thick veneer of a recent Harrovian that he seemed to have back then. You know he went to Harrow?"

"Yes - he told me."

"That's all gone, these days; but, my God he can still be a completely pompous fool when he wants to be."

"I know - but I've never seen him be genuinely horrible to anyone. He's just not very good at dealing with people unless it's in a professional context." Yseult chooses her words carefully - Malcolm has never told anyone but her the more startling details of his past, "I think we've just found a way to get round that. I wasn't kidding when I told you that I thought we had something even closer than I had with Niall. I still think that - regardless of any nonsense about soulmates."

"Well, I know he loves you - if nothing else, most of us have pictures of our loved ones on our desks. He never used to - but now he has one of you." She frowns, "He never really spoke about his family to me. Isn't that odd? I suppose it just goes to show that we weren't really that compatible."

"Perhaps - though I'm not one for telling people my life story either. There's a lot that Malcolm still doesn't really know about me - though I've told him the things that matter most. I think we've been too distracted by events to really spend time swapping our family histories. I imagine we'll probably end up doing that sort of thing once Jim's found this saboteur, and Malcolm's home again."

"And I bet you can't wait." Elisabeth smiles and the pair of them clink their glasses together.

* * *

It's been a long, long drive; Outpost Eight is not called 'remote' without good reason. Malcolm is relieved to finally pull up at the cage entrance, and follows his colleague inside. It's taken them the best part of nine hours to get here on horrible, regularly blocked tracks.

"The power's okay." Robert says, making his way into the main laboratory, "Thank God for that."

"It was worth getting those cables buried deeper to keep the Ovosaurs off them." Malcolm agrees, "I thought I'd never get it through to Commander Taylor that we needed to do it."

"Yeah - and we nearly all ended up with an amnesia virus because no one could warn us he was bringing it with him." Rob grins.

"Don't remind me." While he can't remember all of it, Malcolm does have some vague hints of memories about the incident, and he's quite certain that he has a picture in his head of losing his nerve over something. He just can't recall what it was.

"What time is it?"

"About nineteen hundred. Not really worth starting anything today; I'll review the samples in the morning." Malcolm hefts his backpack, "I'll find a bunk to stash this on, and we can bring the rations in. I knew there was something I didn't enjoy about coming to the outposts."

"The alternative's poisonous mushrooms. Be my guest if you're that desperate to give yourself irreversible liver damage."

"I think I'll pass on that."

Outpost Eight, in addition to being rather remote, is also considerably more labyrinthine than Malcolm remembers. He rarely gets the opportunity to go OTG, so he has never learned his way around any of the off-site stations. Besides, it's impossible to have them all on the same pattern, as they've been constructed underground, and each site has its own challenges in setting out the passageways.

By the time he's found his way back to the lab from the sleeping quarters, Rob has been out and fetched in the rations, "Sorry. I got lost." He admits; embarrassed.

"Everyone does. I'm probably the only person who's learned my way around here. Most come and go - but it was just me and my mushrooms for most of last year, so I've had time to do my getting lost."

"Great - then maybe you can tell me how I get back out of here again?"

"No need. I've brought everything in."

"I was lost for that long, then?"

"Yep. You were." Rob is grinning even more widely.

"Come on." Malcolm sighs, "Let's see if there's anything edible in amongst this lot."

The selection of rations is not entirely unpalatable, and their conversation is cheerful and wide ranging.

"So, how long have you and Max been an item then?"

"About six months now." Malcolm admits, "Hard to believe, that. It's flown."

"A sign of true love." Rob simpers, theatrically.

"That's embarrassing. Talk to me about your mushrooms."

Still grinning delightedly at his boss's bashfulness, Rob fishes out his plex, "Right. The species I've come across are showing traits common with a number of modern descendants which could be useful to Doctor Shannon. I've also been growing a number of moulds and yeasts alongside fruiting bodies, so there's a lot to get through. I'm afraid we'll be very busy tomorrow."

"Busy sounds good. Transmit your results through to the main lab computers and I'll get to work on them in the morning. That was a hell of a drive and I'm knackered."

"You hit the sack, then. There are a few things I need to do, but I don't think I'll be much longer."

Abandoning his colleague to whatever he has to finish, Malcolm makes his way back to the sleeping quarters with only one wrong turning this time. Sitting down on the bunk, he retrieves his plex and calls up a picture of Yseult. God, he misses her - and they've only been apart one day. He really does 'have it bad', as people keep telling him.

"G'night Max." He mumbles, drowsily, and sets the plex aside to get ready for bed.

* * *

Jim looks over his notes from his interviews as the morning sun slants into the Command Centre. He has completed his interviews with the supposedly disgruntled scientists - and has done little more than increase their disgruntlement. None of them have seen anything, or have any suggestions as to who might be responsible for the accidents-that-aren't-actually-accidents. He's no further forward than he was after the building first came down.

"Dammit."

Taylor looks up from his plex, "No progress?"

Jim shakes his head, "At this rate, Malcolm'll be back, and he'll still have some fruit loop after his hide. This is getting stupid - I can't find any sensible motive for these things, and they've covered their tracks like a pro. My detective stock is pretty low right about now."

"At least he's out of the compound." Taylor says, "Whoever's trying to kill him will think that he's at Outpost Five. If they want to try anything there, then they'll be going to the wrong place."

His plex pings with a message, "Put it to one side, Shannon. We've lost that surveillance camera in sector 2 again."

"I'll go check it out."

By late afternoon, Jim is back at his 'desk' in Boylan's and drinks a badly needed coffee. He's had to break up a fight in one of the workshops - over a _screwdriver_ , for pete's sake - while fending off a frantic enquiry over a supposedly stolen plex that turned out to have been left under a bed. What is it with people today? Did someone put something in their lunches?

His comm unit beeps, and he groans, what _now_?

" _Shannon, I need you to investigate an alarm in one of the residential areas. A fume sensor's activated. I'm sending the details to your plex. Meet Dunham at the address and check it out_."

"Will do." He looks at his half drunk coffee, too hot to swallow quickly, and sighs.

As promised, Dunham is waiting for him, "It's this one, Sir."

"Whose house is this?"

"Robert Stanley's."

"And you haven't gone in?"

"Waiting for you, Sir."

Jim manages not to roll his eyes, "Okay. I'll punch us in." He keys in the override, and they open the door.

The sound of the alarm is immediate, as is a rather vile stink that immediately makes Jim's eyes water: "Out!" he says, at once, shoving Dunham out of the door, "Fetch some masks. We can't go in there with it like that."

Masks procured, they try again, though the primary goal is to open windows and doors to flush out the fumes.

"There's the source, Sir." Dunham points to a kitchen counter, where some fallen fruits have knocked over a bottle that has spilled its contents across the surface.

"Any idea what it is?" Jim bends a little closer, "The label's not very helpful - who's H.C.L.?"

"It's 'what', Sir, not who." Dunham is beside him, "If I remember from school, HCL is the chemical formula for hydrochloric acid."

Jim goes very still, a horrible cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, "Get a cleanup crew in here, stat. I need to search this house."

Bemused, Dunham does as bid, heading back outside to summon the requisite staff. Alone in the house, Jim sits down and tries to reconcile what he has seen with what he knows. It can't be possible - it _can't_ be. Malcolm and Robert are friends - he still remembers Malcolm's fierce defence of the man when they questioned him about the possibility of being the Sixer spy. Why would he want to harm a friend, for God's sake? No - someone's leading him by the nose; it's been planted. Rob wouldn't be this careless - leaving a bottle of dangerously corrosive liquid on his kitchen counter. Someone's trying to divert attention away from themselves.

Nonetheless, that awful nagging sense of worry won't leave him be. Despite all his rationalisations, there's no way he's going anywhere until he's searched this damn house.

Reaching for his comm unit, he puts his head out of the door so he can remove his mask, and puts in a call, "Taylor, I need you to come down here. I think I might've found something."

* * *

By the time he's allowed back in, Taylor has arrived, "What's this about acid?"

"I'll tell you once I've had a look around the house. It might've been planted." His voice does not betray the degree of hope he has that it's been put there for him to find. The alternative is too horrible to think about.

The search is comprehensive - thanks to Jim's long experience as a narcotics cop - but still it takes nearly an hour before he has only one room left to check; and he starts the search of the bedroom.

"What are you looking for?"

"Nothing, I hope." Jim burrows into a wardrobe, and then his hand hits something hard. Fumbling with it, he retrieves his discovery: a festively decorative biscuit tin. It feels light, and yet, why hide it so comprehensively if there's nothing of worth in it?

Opening it, he frowns.

"What?" Taylor asks, still at the door.

"Newspaper clippings." While most people received their news in 2149 by plex, not everyone could afford such gadgets, so a few cities still had one or two daily papers. The samples in the tin are a bit yellowed, probably thanks to the poor quality of the paper that was being used by then, but they all seem to cover the same topic, "They're all about some scientist who committed suicide in 2145. A woman called Allison Jones?"

"Allison Jones? You're sure about that?" Taylor asks, his expression a little concerned.

"That's what it says. Something about her being expelled from a pilgrimage because she made a false accusation against one of the selection panel. There are quotes here from Stanley - it looks like he was her brother. Jones was her married name. Doesn't say who she accused though - apparently it was kept quiet at the time to preserve everyone's anonymity. They weren't allowed to mention it in the papers after she died, either."

"I know who it was." Taylor says, a little dully, "Most information about pilgrimages is kept confidential because of the lottery system, which is why the news didn't get out when she made the accusation; but it had to go on their staff record. I didn't realise she was Stanley's sister..." his voice trails off.

"I don't like the look on your face, Taylor."

"Come with me. This isn't something that can be allowed to get around the colony; we'll discuss it in the Command Centre."

Taylor's expression is grim as he seats himself at his desk, "What I'm about to tell you is strictly confidential, Shannon. No one knows, and it's not to be mentioned again outside these walls. It's not fair on the individual involved."

"Cut the anonymity crap, Taylor. It's Malcolm, isn't it?"

Taylor nods, then begins, "About ten months before the Fifth departed, he was recruited as Chief Science Officer - and he was part of a panel interviewing team members for the colony. We'd spent the first couple of years getting started before we could have them through. Everyone in the science teams was interviewed by that panel. He was on it - but he wasn't chairing it; that was the Dean of Northeastern.

"One of the applicants was Allison Jones. She was a recent graduate, so she wasn't really what we were looking for at that point. We needed experienced staff, not people just out of college. From what I understand, her grades were exceptional, so Malcolm was keen to have her come along, though he agreed that she should get some experience first and he suggested she come through on the sixth. The rest of the panel agreed - and they turned her down, but put her name on a list for future pilgrimages."

"She took it badly, I take it?"

"It turned out that she had a stronger motivation than some. She was married and had a kid - very young - but the kid had a lung disorder. She applied for the fifth partly to work, but partly to get her child into a clean atmosphere. I think she'd pinned a lot of hopes on getting onto the fifth - but it was never really clear if she knew she was on a list to come through once she had more experience."

"And she tried to persuade Malcolm to talk the panel round?"

"He was the only person on the panel that wasn't over fifty." Taylor admits, "Though the impression I get is that the other members were pretty uptight, and she might've gone for him because he wasn't."

"Whatever her reasons, she didn't get the answer she wanted?"

Taylor shakes his head, "Unfortunately she tried to proposition him. God knows what she was thinking - but I imagine she wasn't."

Jim nods, "I can relate to that - I don't know what I'd've done if we'd had to make that choice over Zoe. I take it he turned her down?"

"He did - unfortunately, she went to the panel and claimed that he'd tried to offer her a place on the pilgrimage in exchange for sex."

"She what? _Malcolm_?" Jim is aghast: the Malcolm he knows is - or at least _was_ \- as uptight as any cliché Englishman he's ever come across.

"Exactly my thought. Trouble was, Malcolm being only thirty five at the time, it looked feasible and it caused one hell of a crap-storm. People wouldn't believe his denials, and he was suspended from his post before he'd even taken it up; hell, they nearly dropped him from the pilgrimage - and any future pilgrimages at all. He had to get a lawyer to represent him at a formal hearing to get his job back - and it was only because she'd chosen to corner him in a room with surveillance cameras that it all fell apart on her. The lawyer had a deaf clerk who lipread what he was saying - the camera wasn't on her face - and they accepted it as evidence."

"So she had to admit she'd made it up?"

"She did. She'd told them that the conversation in that room was where he'd done it - and he was able to prove that the conversation they had was completely different. He was exonerated, but he still had to fight to get the suspension lifted. He nearly didn't get here. He had to tell me about it when we arrived because of the note on his record; but we agreed it wouldn't be talked about again. He was really rattled by it when it happened, but even so, he submitted a request to the panel that she still be considered for the sixth - because she was so talented, believe it or not."

"Seriously?" Jim is surprised, "Mind you, Max said he's not vindictive."

"He isn't. He can be a complete ass at times, but he doesn't hold grudges. Besides, he was probably thinking about her child as much as her."

"But she killed herself?" Jim prompts.

"The Dean of Northeastern overruled his request. They cut her from any future pilgrimages."

"That's harsh."

"Maybe so. But what does this have to do with Malcolm now?" Taylor asks.

"The spillage in his house - the one that caused the fumes? It was hydrochloric acid."

"And?"

"I got Elisabeth to do some tests on the building that collapsed - we found that some sort of acid must've caused the corrosion, but it didn't occur naturally, or through faulty paint. Someone actually applied the acid to the joists - and they took one hell of a risk doing it."

"And you think it was Robert Stanley?"

"When I saw the bottle, I didn't know what to think - that's why I searched the house: I thought it'd been planted. And then I found the tin."

"But he's friends with Malcolm, isn't he?"

"So we thought." Jim pauses, and looks bemused, "But why take so long? He came through on the sixth - it's been, what, seven years? Why wait until now?"

"Because of the Sixers." Taylor sighs, "Everyone on that pilgrimage was under suspicion. It's only in the last year or so that it's really gone away. Maybe he didn't feel safe to try it because we were watching them." he frowns, crossly, " _Damn_ , why didn't the records say they were related?"

"Rob knows chemicals; he has access to the labs - he knows Malcolm's routine. Perhaps that's why he created these accidents - to get Malcolm to go OTG?" Jim's expression becomes more urgent, "It would explain why the accidents missed him by chance."

"Except the scorpion."

"Maybe that went wrong."

Taylor is already tapping on his workstation, "I'll get him back here; make up a reason. Something's gone kablooey in the labs or something and we can't repair it without him." He opens a channel, "This is Commander Taylor calling Outpost Eight. Come in."

No answer.

"Outpost Eight. Come in, please. Malcolm - are you there? Please respond."

Nothing.

"This is Commander Taylor calling Outpost Eight. Please respond."

Still nothing.

They do not say a word to each other. His eyes grim, Taylor snatches down the sword he was given by Yseult, then reaches for his holster and jacket. Jim is already on his way downstairs to the armoury. In less than ten minutes, the pair are armed to the teeth, and their rover departs from the gates.


	18. Hunt

Chapter Eighteen

 _Hunt_

Sitting over a rather dull breakfast from the ration pack, Malcolm sighs. Despite his rather desperate wish to get out of the Compound, and - if he's truly honest with himself - the sheer relief of not having a sense that there's a target painted on his back, he is regretting his decision. While they don't spend _every_ night together, not having Yseult beside him when he woke this morning has made him realise just how important she has become to him. She might well be trying to make herself get over the fact that she's convinced something bad will happen to him, thanks to Niall's loss, but nonetheless, the intensity with which he misses her is rather a surprise. In some ways, he wouldn't mind never leaving to visit a Science Outpost again if it meant he could spend every morning waking up with her beside him. God, he really _has_ got it bad.

Taking a gulp of the coffee substitute, he grimaces at the taste. They've got to use up the vile stuff; but now that they've had some success with coffee plants, and a collaboration between Josh and Geoff has made roasting the beans that they're getting from the coffee cherries a viable option, no one wants it anymore. Thus it is foisted on those who leave the Compound. Another reason he should've stayed. This is ridiculous; he'll be blubbering into his cereal bars in a minute.

Rob joins him in the recreation room as he rises from the table, "Sorry I was a bit late to bed last night. I hope I didn't disturb you?"

"If you did, I don't remember it. Like I said; I was completely knackered. Those tracks were horrible to drive on, and then having to get out and clear stuff every few miles? No wonder you stayed here full time as long as you did."

"Couldn't get back, could I?" Rob grins, "Some of us don't have our own rovers."

"Good point." Malcolm points to the nearby hot-jug, "There's some of that filthy coffee substitute in there, and all the gritty muesli bars you could ever wish to choke on. The sooner we use those up, the better. They're almost as horrible as the coffee."

"Rather have a full English, then?"

"I would if I could remember what one tasted like. You Americans haven't the first idea when it comes to bacon."

"God, don't remind me." Rob sighs, beatifically, "Pancakes and maple syrup with bacon on top. Haven't had that since the day before I got to Hope Plaza. No maples here - and all pigs would do is attract slashers. When is this world going to evolve the critters naturally?"

"Oh, in about eighty million years or so. That's a hell of a wait for a decent bacon sandwich."

"Maybe we could try hibernating." Rob muses.

"Speak for yourself, Rip Van Stanley." Malcolm chuckles, "I've got work to do."

Based on the preliminary results that Rob has provided, Malcolm sits down and reads through the paperwork. The results certainly look promising, from the point of view of a chemist, at least; he is not, after all, a botanist. The samples Rob has collected for full testing are scattered about the secondary laboratory, where the analytic equipment is kept. He's managed to get himself lost again, and will need to hunt out the main laboratory in a while so that he can regain his bearings. Contrary to his earlier view that he wishes he'd stayed at in the Compound, he is now wishing he'd spent more time at the more distant outposts - his inability to find things here is rather ridiculous.

By lunchtime, he has managed to figure out, and retain, the route between the secondary labs, main lab and the rec room. Given that the rest of the outpost is still extensive, being used for a wide range of disciplines alongside Rob's experiments with fungi, he considers this to be progress - though he still hasn't quite worked out how to reach the exit.

"What have you been up to?" He asks Rob, who is working his way through a mugful of rehydrated soup mix with an expression that appears to be nothing at all like relish.

"Tending to the moulds, mostly." He advises, then indicates his mug, "This tastes like crap."

"Says a man who has never had the misfortune to experience my cooking."

"Even _you_ couldn't make something as bad as this."

"Never mind. I'll have the first sets of results in about an hour; we can go through them."

Rob grins at him, "You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to that."

"God; you're keen, aren't you?"

"Hey - I've had to put a lot of work into what I've been doing here; why do you think I asked you to help me out? I couldn't have asked anyone else. I've got a lot riding on it."

Malcolm looks at him, bemused, "What - have you got a bet on, or something?"

"I just want to make sure that it doesn't go wrong. That's all."

Then he gets it: the results from the tests he's doing will almost certainly determine whether or not Rob can continue with the programme. Given the amount of time he's spent at this outpost, no wonder he's putting so much emphasis on the outcome.

"Fair enough. Give me another hour or so, and I'll give you a shout. I can take you through the results."

"Great. I'll see you later."

Transmitting the readings from his analytical equipment to one of the Outpost's plexes, Malcolm settles down to work through the results, a fresh cup of that vile coffee at his side. Within ten minutes, however, he frowns. This can't be right…

Bemused, he flicks back to the preliminary workups, and then returns to his results. No, it's not right - there must be something wrong with the equipment. The compounds he's identified are nothing at all like the preliminary results that Rob reported; and he knows Rob well enough to be certain that he wouldn't have misread anything. He's too good a botanist to do that.

A movement in the doorway catches his attention, and he looks up, "Hi Rob - sorry, I was going to call you; the results I'm getting don't make any sense; the compounds are completely different from the ones you identified in your preliminary reports."

"They would be." Rob advises, casually, "Given that I didn't identify them."

"Pardon?"

"You're looking at workups for Pleuromutilin derived from _Clitopilus passeckerianus_ , Nicotinamide ribosome from _Saccharomyces cerevisiae_ and Ciclosporin from _Tolypocladium inflatum._ All modern species. I just lifted them from archived papers. The whole lot of them are over a century old; just to make sure they didn't jump out at you as being too obvious."

"Are you saying you've made all this up? What about what you've grown? Haven't you run any tests at _all_?"

"Too busy."

"Doing what?"

"Preparing for this." Rob advises, his expression suddenly becoming unnervingly grim, "The moment I finally make you pay for my sister's death."

* * *

Malcolm stares at Rob, confused, "What are you talking about? I didn't know you had a sister - I don't know anyone with the surname Stanley except you."

"You'd recognise her married name, I think: Allison Jones?"

Malcolm goes very still. He hasn't forgotten - but the last he knew, she was still alive, "I do remember her name - I had no idea she'd died; I'm sorry, really I am, but what does that have to do with me?"

"Everything. She hanged herself."

"She _hanged_ herself?" Malcolm is aghast, " _Why_?"

"Why d'you think? Thanks to you, she lost any chance of ever coming here and getting my niece out of that filthy atmosphere!"

"That was _nothing_ to do with me. I petitioned for her to come in on the Sixth - I was overruled. If you want to blame anyone, blame Buck Sampson. He was the one who overruled me."

"Yeah, right. That's the ultimate isn't it? Pass the _Buck_. Literally."

"For God's sake! I still don't know what she was thinking - we'd deferred her application, not rejected it. She nearly cost me my job! My reputation! Do you really think that she would've come through on a pilgrimage after she made that accusation, even if she _hadn't_ been found out? She had no experience - we weren't looking for people fresh out of University at that point. We wanted her to get experience before she came through. The only difference it would've made is that she would've come through with you instead of the year before!"

"That's bullshit, Wallace. You were the Chief Science Officer - if you'd wanted to, you could've swayed that damned panel! Why didn't you?"

"Because they weren't going to accept her application at all!" Malcolm shouts back, "They only agreed to defer because I recommended they do it! If she'd taken that in, then we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

"Crap. She was desperate and you threw her under the bus to save your job!"

"Don't give me that bollocks! She cornered me, and then tried to throw _me_ under that bus you're talking about! I had to fight like hell to keep my place on the pilgrimage - they nearly didn't rescind the suspension. She wasn't the only one who'd devoted themselves to getting here! It was the only thing I wanted, and she tried to take it from me when she didn't even _have_ to! I even petitioned for her to be kept on the sixth pilgrimage anyway - it would've been damned awkward, but we could've worked around it! Buck overruled me!"

The silence is rather unnerving after all the shouting. For a moment, Malcolm wonders if he's persuaded Rob to accept that he's blaming the wrong person; but then the botanist's eyes narrow, and he reaches to his waist to draw his parang. The parang that he bought from Yseult… _Oh God what if he kills me with that? What will she think?_

And then it registers: kill.

"Oh, my God. It was you, wasn't it?" Malcolm says, softly, "You did something to bring that building down…"

Rob smiles, nastily, "Risky, but worth it. A few dabs of hydrochloric acid - ate at it like pac-man. All I had to do was make sure it clashed with you overbooking yourself."

"But _Lucy_ was in there - and she's _pregnant_ , for God's sake! What the hell were you thinking? That she's expendable?"

"Wasn't that what you thought about Allison?" Rob counters at once, like stuck record.

"And what if she'd been killed - what then?"

"That would've been a shame - but she wasn't, was she? Same with the acetone; it wasn't difficult to persuade you to look over my results and have someone else make that etching solution - and let's face it, _that_ wasn't going to kill anyone. Leave some nasty burns perhaps, but that's about it. Besides, I know you can smell the stuff, so whatever happened, someone'd get suspicious. Anything to freak you out into going OTG with the only person you could trust. Apart from your new lady-friend, of course."

"You bastard…"

"I've been thinking that about you for years. Funny how these things turn around, isn't it?"

"What about the scorpion?" Malcolm demands, furious, " _That_ nearly killed me, didn't it?"

"Nothing to do with me. I wanted you alive - why would I trap you in a room with a killer invertebrate? If they'd succeeded, that would've been a year's work down the toilet. Besides, I've had to spend seven years pretending to be your best friend, when all I wanted to do was make you drink bleach. To have someone get in first? Hell, no."

"Rob…"

"Don't call me that."

"Look - stop treating Allison like some bloody martyr! All she had to do was be patient, and she would've come through with you. She's the one who acted rashly - _she's_ the one who threw her future away; and she nearly took mine with it! What was I supposed to do? Accept the loss of everything I'd worked for because of someone else's lies? What would you have done, damn you?"

Rob does not reply, but instead advances, the parang held aloft, "Don't think it'll be easy, Wallace. I've been waiting a long time for this, and I want it to last."

Malcolm stares at his supposed friend; he has no idea what to do - he's trapped behind the workstation, and the only way out is past the hefty botanist, who weighs more than he does, and is likely to be far stronger, too. Desperately, he looks about for something, anything, he can use as a weapon.

Nothing. Except…

With a swift movement, he snatches up the coffee mug, and hurls its contents in Rob's face. It's still quite fresh, and - consequently, good and hot. Hot enough, he hopes, to at least sting, if not scald. Howling, Rob staggers back; opening a gap between himself and the workstation. Not much - but enough…

Shouldering the staggering botanist, Malcolm forces his way past, and flees for the door. Now to get out. If he can find the way.

* * *

Pounding footsteps. Blood rushing in his ears. He has no idea where he's going; he can't even be sure if he's heading to the exit or further into the complex. Skidding to a halt, Malcolm looks about desperately for something, anything, that he can use to defend himself. His reputation for non-violence might well be thoroughly earned, but he is damned if he's going to be a sodding damsel in distress.

 _There_ …

Scaffolding pipes - from when they were first constructing the tunnels. A bit unwieldy, but not impossible. Lifting the shortest he can find, he hefts it a few times. If he's cornered, he has something now to strike out with. Not brilliant, but better than nothing against that parang.

 _How the hell do I get out of here…_

Malcolm leans against the rough hewn wall of the tunnel, and forces his breathing to slow down. Thinking, planning - that's what will get him back to the door, not panicking. Maybe that's what Rob's banking on; that he'll panic, and run into some trap or other.

 _Think…think…_

It's not possible to lay these places out in a logical pattern - the bedrock tends to determine how the outposts spread. Why don't they have directions painted on the sodding walls? Didn't it ever occur to anyone that people might need to find their way out in a hurry?

Then he sees something at head height on the opposite wall. Someone did put directions here; but it's been scratched out to the point of being meaningless. So this is why Rob's been too busy to do the work he's claimed he's been doing…

Rather than sag, Malcolm approaches the vandalised sign. While it's been severely messed up, it's still, almost, readable - enough to make out 'M-n L-o-t-y' beneath what remains of a directional arrow.

He moves slowly, carefully. The floors here are solid, so there are no floorboards to creak - and his boots, while solid, have rubber soles, and thus make little noise as long as he sets his feet down carefully.

"Keep hiding if you want, Wallace. I've got all the time in the world. It's not like anyone knows you're in trouble."

The voice sounds quite distant; but that could mean nothing at all. Rather than give away his position, Malcolm remains silent, before crouching to the ground and peeping, at floor level, around the corner into the adjacent corridor. He sees a shadow of a man receding, and slowly rises again. Taking another look, he makes his way in the opposite direction, obeying the arrow.

It's the same at every bend, every crossing - and there are so many of them. Despite Rob's efforts, there's usually just enough of the paint left on the direction sign to keep him true, and he makes his slow, nervous way towards the main lab. Once he's there, he'll be able to orientate himself, get out, get to his rover and leave Robert Stanley alone with his hatred.

It's crazy - how the hell did he conceal that much hate? Has he gone out of his mind? His actions suggest that he hasn't - there's too much careful planning; but why take so long? Of course…he came in on the Sixth…under suspicion like everyone else who stayed when Mira departed with half the pilgrimage. It's only since the occupation that they've escaped that scrutiny.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Rob's voice taunts somewhere in the tunnels - he can't tell where, "I'm having a blast."

 _Shut up. Just shut the hell up…_

And then he can see it ahead, the corridor beginning to open out. Finally, he emerges into the main lab.

" _This is Commander Taylor calling Outpost Eight. Come in."_

Malcolm almost lets out a sob of relief, and hastens forward to answer.

"Go on. I dare you."

He skids to a halt, frozen with fear. Rob is there. Waiting for him.

"Do you really think I wanted you to get lost? God - I was really worried you'd be smart enough to figure out that I'd left just enough of the direction signs for you to get back here. Why bother chasing you?"

" _Outpost Eight. Come in, please. Malcolm - are you there? Please respond."_

"Let me talk to the Commander, Rob. We can stop this here and now. There doesn't need to be any violence. If I don't respond, then he's going to know there's a problem."

"And have you give him some kind of signal if you do? Yeah, like I'd be that dumb. Don't worry, it's not going to take nine hours to finish this - assuming that they take that long, of course. I'll just tell them that you went out to chase some Ovosaurs off your rover and a Slasher got you."

" _This is Commander Taylor calling Outpost Eight. Please respond."_

"They'd never believe that."

"Doesn't matter to me. You'd still be dead, and that's what I'm interested in."

The comms panel goes silent, and Malcolm realises that Taylor has given up. Knowing the Commander, he'll already be summoning assistance - that gives him nine hours.

Nine hours to stay alive.

* * *

"You gonna fight me, then?" Rob asks, with a contemptuous sneer.

"If I have to. After what you've put me through - do you really think I'd just take it?"

"Got something to live for have you? Your new lover-girl? I'll tell her how sorry I am that you died. That's just how it is in a land full of dinosaurs."

"You bastard!" He can't help himself, "Do you even _care_ that she lost her husband to Nykoraptors? And you want to tell her that I was taken down by an Acceraptor?"

"Tough. You started this when you left Allison with no hope of coming here. Get over it." Then he stops, and smiles, "Wow, I've touched a nerve there haven't I? My God - you're really going to take me on? That's cute. Come on - give it your best shot." He advances, waving the parang threateningly, "And if I get you with this, then she's responsible for _your_ death, isn't she? That's a pretty cool bit of justice from my way of looking at it."

His eyes a little wide, Malcolm backs away, holding his scaffolding pipe before him as best he can. He has never fought anyone in his life - except for the inevitable childhood scraps that all boys seem to indulge in at least a few times before they grow up. If he is to get out of this still breathing, then he is going to have to strike a man down - and possibly kill him.

 _Can I do that?_

Then he's against the wall. Opposite, he can see the way he needs to go; there is a sign there that Rob has not bothered to scratch out. Why would he? It's not as though Malcolm would need it…

"You scared, Wallace?" Rob taunts, softly, "Wondering what your girl's gonna feel when she finds out that you're dead?"

"Leave Yseult out of this. If I have to fight to get back to her, then I will."

"With that pipe shaking in your hands so much?"

And then he lunges with the parang.

Malcolm's reaction is reflex alone - driven only by self-preservation. Whether or not the weapon was intended to reach him, he has no idea, as it misses by a large margin, but his wild swing with the pole does not, bashing violently into the side of Rob's jaw, and sending him to the ground with a vicious yowl of pain.

He does not hesitate; with no idea how injured his assailant might be, waiting to find out could prove fatal. Bolting for the exit, he is soon in the corridor, and then - thank God - the exit is in sight.

Hoping desperately that Rob has not changed the access code, he jabs it in and reaches for the handle; only for something above his head to detonate with a solid _boufff_ noise, blasting something in his face.

"Christ!" he can't stop the epithet, and his intake of breath is sharp from fright. It's only as he does so that he realises that the unexpected detonation has fired some powder or other over him, and he has just breathed in a solid lungful of the stuff. Coughing violently, he staggers against the wall, his vision starting to craze. What the hell is it? What's Rob done? _God…oh God…it was a trap…_

His legs buckle, and he can think of only one thing. Poison. Again. Rob was lying about that damned scorpion…he must have…

And then he drops to the ground, and passes out cold on the floor.

* * *

When his eyes open, he cannot work out where he is. He is not in bed - nor is he lying on a hard floor, so he hasn't fainted at work. Besides, why is it dark? What is the flickering light he can see? And why is he lying on vegetation?

"Finally. I thought you'd never wake up."

Slowly, awkwardly, Malcolm attempts to turn, only to find that he cannot move his arms, or his legs.

"Don't bother. You'll only hurt yourself. I've used cable ties, so there's no point in trying to free yourself."

Nonetheless, he tries. Sure enough, thin plastic bites into his wrists, which are pinioned behind his back. His legs move a little more freely, but not much: he seems to have been hobbled.

Abandoning the idea of struggling as a waste of energy, instead, he concentrates on shifting so that he can see where he is. Gradually, the source of flickering comes into focus - a large fire. Are they out in the forest? Rob must be mad - anything could get them in the dark…

"Don't worry. I've got a sonic rifle. Anything that comes near us'll get blasted."

"What the hell is happening? Why give me all that talk about killing me and then knock me out?"

"I said it wouldn't be easy, didn't I? Besides, what did you think of my little bomb? The other results might've been baloney, but I found that one of the yeasts gave off some pretty soporific spores. I've been working on that, you see. That was just the warm-up. The thing is, I'm not that interested in killing you. Not straight up."

"What? I don't understand what you're talking about."

"The thing is; if I stick the parang in you, or shoot you, then it's over, isn't it? You haven't reflected on what you did, or what it did to me. I want you to die - don't get me wrong. I just want it to take a good long time - so I knocked up something from an aluminum locker. That's the other thing I was working on instead of medicinal fungus."

Awkwardly, Malcolm shifts again, and he can see it, a short distance away; a rather battered looking storage locker that seems to have been enlarged and modified. _Modified for what?_

"Of course, you can't see the other side of it; the hole I've dug in the ground. Once you're in there - locked in, of course - I'll shove the locker into the hole and bury it."

His eyes widen in horror, and he squirms again, turning back, "Rob - for God's sake, don't. Please, don't. This isn't justice…"

"I don't care what you want to call it. At my best reckoning, you'll have a good half hour to an hour to think over what you did. Then you asphyxiate. Now you know why I was so pissed when someone set that scorpion on you. That's what I wanted to happen to you, yeah - but I wanted it to be under _my_ control."

"Rob - for Christ's sake! Rob! What happened to Allison wasn't my fault! You know it wasn't! Why are you doing this? _Why_?"

"For Allison, you idiot. And for Sasha - she wouldn't have lived long enough to come through on the sixth; she had a lung disorder. _That's_ why she was so desperate to get on the fifth. When you deferred her application, you condemned her daughter to death. Think on that."

"Oh God…Oh dear God, don't do it. Please Rob, _Please_ …I tried to help her - I tried, but I was up against Buck Sampson - he was the Dean of Northeastern and he wasn't interested in recruiting a graduate. Deferring her application was all he was prepared to agree to. I was just a Research Fellow, even if it was my team we were recruiting for. Once she'd caused all that mess with her accusation, it was a foregone conclusion. I tried to keep her on the list, but he wasn't having it. What else could I have done?"

Rob stabs the parang into the ground and sets the rifle aside, "I'll tell you what you could've done." He advises, hooking his hands under Malcolm's arms and hefting him up, "You could've done _more_."

Despite everything, he fights. Fights with all he has - but he is bound, and he achieves nothing more than to delay the inevitable, being unceremoniously, and painfully, dumped into the cold metal box. Face down, he can't manage to gain any purchase on the smooth surface, and is unable to turn, "Rob!" why he still pleads, he has no idea - but anything; _anything_ to stay alive…has he been unconscious long enough for Taylor to arrive? God, _please_ say that he has, "I'll beg if I have to! Whatever you want! Just stop! Please stop!"

"I'm doing what I want." Rob advises, grimly, and kicks the door shut.

In an instant, he is in complete darkness, and cannot stop the scream that emerges.

"It took me nearly a day and a half to dig this hole." The voice is muffled, and partially obscured by the racket of Malcolm's wild breathing, "I can't wait to fill it in. Feel free to scream all you want. I'm looking forward to that."

He feels the locker shift, then slide, and he is brutally winded as it drops violently to hit the ground. By the sound of it, and the time it took, he hasn't gone far - less than half a metre, probably. Not that it matters. Even if he weren't bound, he couldn't possibly force his way through aluminium to get out.

 _Oh God…Oh Christ…Oh dear God…get me out…someone please get me out of this…please, please, please…_

Tears begin to stream down his face and he begins to sob in fear. Unless someone comes, there's no escape from this - and he will die in the forest like Niall did. What will happen to Max? He promised her he'd come home to her… promised he wouldn't die…but he can't get out. He can't get out…

And then he hears the rumbling clatter of a spadeful of earth dropping onto the top of the locker.

" _ROB!_ " he can't stop himself, "Stop! Please stop it! For God's sake, you've made your point! I can't bring Allison back! I couldn't stop what she did! How will this bring her back? Why punish Yseult? What's she done to you? _Rob! PLEASE!_ "

There is no answer. Just another spadeful. And another. And another.

 _Taylor's coming. He's coming. He'll find me. He'll get here in time. He will, he will. He has to…oh God please let him get here…_

He has no idea how long it's been going on. There is no means to know how time has passed in that horrible darkness. He can't see, and even the sound of earth falling is now a muffled clatter, not a roar. How much air is left? There were vents in the locker. Are they covered now? He can't see to be certain…

But then it stops.

 _Taylor…he's found us…_

It's faint, but he can just hear it…the distinctive sound of a sonic rifle blast. Someone must've shot Rob down.

The air is horrible now; warm and humid. The vents must be blocked, then. _If Taylor doesn't hurry up, then he's going to find a corpse down here…_

After an interminable time, Malcolm can hear the sound he has most wanted to hear since his burial began: the sound of earth being scraped _away_ from the locker, not onto it. Someone's digging down.

Someone's coming.

* * *

The first sense he gets that the locker is truly being uncovered is a brief breeze that puffs against his cheek as a vent clears. Fresh air; he can breathe again…

The scraping becomes a screech, as the spade connects with the metal of the door. Then there is a violent _bang_ , as the tool is bashed against something. Presumably a padlock.

It takes six attempts before the lock breaks, and then a scuffle, and a thud.

 _Open the door, Taylor. Just open the bloody door!_

As his senses start to settle again, Malcolm's thoughts become more orderly, and a realisation strikes him. If this is Taylor, or even Jim Shannon, why haven't they called out to him? They must know it's him in this locker…

Then the door is wrenched upwards, and the air - warm, but considerably less warm than that in which he lies - is suddenly almost enticingly fresh. He still can't turn over, so his rescuer bends close, and a hand grabs his shoulder to turn him.

Malcolm opens his mouth to gush desperate, anguished thanks to his saviour; but the words dry in his throat. The light, while poor, is still sufficient for him to see the man standing over him.

"Now that's what I call good timing." The voice is familiar - but it's not a voice he thought he would ever hear again. Nor is it a voice he would ever have _wanted_ to hear again.

It's a Taylor, alright. But it's not Nathaniel. It's Lucas.


	19. The Wrong Taylor

**A/N:** There we go - a nice little Lucas-shaped curveball! One can't continue without including the anti-prodigal son, of course - he was always going to resurface sooner or later, and I hope that his arrival was nice and unexpected.

Thanks again for that lovely review, Leona - and to all my readers for your continued support. On we go!

As always, I own nothing other than that which has emerged from my own imagination...

* * *

 **PART THREE**

 **THE HARDEST CHOICE OF ALL**

Chapter Nineteen

 _The Wrong Taylor_

Elisabeth shuffles slightly as she stands at the door. All she has is a rather garbled message from Jim - but she knows she can't keep it quiet. There's someone who needs to hear it - and it's going to hit her horribly hard. Pulling herself together, she knocks.

It takes a few minutes, and she almost hopes that there's no one in; but no such luck.

"Elisabeth! Hi, what're you doing here?" Yseult is quite startled; and, if her rather oversized pyjamas are anything to go by, not expecting company. Then she sees the Doctor's face, "Oh God…please, Elisabeth…" her face drains of colour almost at once.

"Easy, Max," Immediately Elisabeth catches her elbow and guides her into the house to her sofa, "I don't have a message like that."

"But something's happened, hasn't it?" Yseult demands, rather desperately, as she sits down heavily, as though her legs will not hold her up. Holding her hands, Elisabeth crouches beside her.

"Jim was called to a house this afternoon; a fume alarm was triggered by a chemical spillage. It was a bottle of hydrochloric acid in someone's kitchen."

"I don't understand."

"Hydrochloric acid was what was used to corrode the joists in the building that came down. We discovered that a short while ago. It made him suspicious that someone had planted it, so he searched the house - and found some newspaper clippings about an incident that occurred prior to the sixth pilgrimage. It was a colonist's sister - she committed suicide because she was turned down to come on any future pilgrimages. Jim's found the person who's been setting those accidents for Malcolm."

"You mean - you've got him?" Yseult looks at her, confused, "Why's Jim not come here to tell me? Isn't that good news?"

"Yes - and no." Elisabeth sighs, "It's Robert Stanley."

Immediately, Yseult is on her feet, and making towards her bedroom, "I have to get dressed; they can't go without me. I'll take my bloody sword if I have to…"

"Max. They've already gone."

She turns, "They've _gone_? No - they can't. I have to go with them - I lost Niall out in the forests and I wasn't there. I can't let it happen again."

"And what would you do if you got there?"

"What do you think? Get my bloody parang back off that bastard - I'll chop his hand off if I have to…oh God, Elisabeth - what if they're too late? What if he's already hurt? Or dead? What if he's being hurt right now?" her anger is faltering into fear, "Why is this even happening? Why does Robert want to hurt him?"

Elisabeth guides her back to the sofa, "I didn't get all the details - they're confidential. As far Jim was willing to tell me, Robert's sister was turned down for a place on the fifth pilgrimage, but deferred to the sixth; which was the pilgrimage he was expecting to get onto. Apparently, for some reason or another, she was so desperate to get onto the fifth that she made a false accusation - and got caught out - she killed herself a few months after the pilgrimage left. He blames Malcolm - though Jim's insistent that it wasn't Malcolm's fault."

"Not again…" Yseult whispers, miserably, "What is it about me? Why do I send people I love to their deaths? He doesn't deserve that - he's a good man…"

"There's only one person to blame for this, Max; and that's Rob Stanley." Elisabeth says, firmly, "You can't do this to yourself - this isn't because of you, or anything that Malcolm's done. Jim and Commander Taylor are on their way out there right now. They'll stop this and bring him home. Trust them, okay?"

"I trusted Commander Taylor with Niall - and, I know he did his best, and I'll always be grateful that he did - but Niall died."

"Malcolm won't. He's not up against a Nykoraptor - he's up against a podgy botanist. If nothing else, it's a hell of a lot less one-sided."

"I wish I could think that. All that I can think right now is that history's repeating itself - and I'm going to lose Malcolm, just like I lost Niall - and…" she begins to cry, "I can't go through it again - I can't…"

Elisabeth is startled by the sound of a knock on the door, "Do you want me to get that?" she asks, gently.

Trembling, her face in her hands, Yseult nods.

"Hello Doctor - there's rumours flying. Is Max in there?" it's her woodsman, Pete is it? Elisabeth nods.

"Leave her with me. We've been best pals for a decade or more. Don't worry - I'm gay; so it's not like I'm going to use this to try and get in her knickers."

Elisabeth stares at him, startled at his forthright comment. Yseult isn't kidding about his manner.

"Pete?" Yseult looks up, her face streaming tears, "Oh God - Pete, it's Malcolm. The man he's gone OTG with is the man who's been trying to kill him…"

"Bleeding hell." Pete marches into the living room, "I know he's a berk, but that's a bit harsh isn't it?" Leaving Elisabeth still standing at the door, he gathers Yseult in his arms, "Come on. Sob it out onto Aunty Pete." He turns back then, "Sorry - that was a bit rude of me, wasn't it? Can I get you anything once I've calmed Max down?"

"Its alright. I think she's best with you, Pete. I'll leave you to it - call me if she needs me, alright?"

"Will do." He immediately returns his attention to Yseult, "Do you want to cuddle me or Schmidt?"

 _Schmidt?_ Elisabeth thinks, bemused, as she departs.

* * *

Lucas has turned Malcolm onto his back, and he lies, uncomfortably, within the locker; looking up at the man who has rescued him.

"Is he coming to get you?" Lucas asks, "That would be quite fun - but I don't have time to mess about with my father. I've got some more important work to be getting on with." Then he grins, "I like this thing. What is it? A machete? I can't believe how sharp it is. Don't worry about the fatso - this thing went through his throat like it was melting butter. Very efficient."

"You _killed_ him?" Malcolm stares, horrified.

"You can thank me later." Lucas looks quite impressed, "I have to say - this is a truly horrible way to die. Tubby here must've really hated you. I think we would've been great friends if I hadn't had to kill him. I can so completely relate."

It's not possible; surely it's not - didn't Skye shoot him twice? Yes - he managed to get away from them while they were distracted but, still…he should've been dead. But he isn't. In fact, he looks remarkably healthy for a man shot twice…

"I can guess what you're thinking. Yes - I'm in remarkably rude health for my wounded state, aren't I? Courtesy of my dear, darling Bucket. The thing is; without me, there wasn't any way that my colleagues were going to be able to return to the future, so they had something of a vested interest in bringing me back from the dead."

"And how are they going to manage that, given that Jim Shannon destroyed Hope Plaza with a pyrosonic device?" Malcolm asks, shifting awkwardly; his arms are pinioned beneath him, and he can feel pins and needles starting in his fingers.

"I've been busy. You have no idea how much complex mathematics is involved in solving a problem like that. I can make a two-way portal, but I can't control it. Not yet, anyway. I'm very close now - but without a working terminus, I can't get any further. We could've come for you at any point in the last two years; but taking you would bring down the wrath of my father and send an army in our wake. Best, I think, to wait until we were ready to fire up a terminus before fetching you in to repair it."

"What difference does it make? You can't connect to the other end. Hope Plaza's destroyed - you could end up anywhere."

"What do you think I've been working on?" Lucas asks, still looking down at him from above, "It took me years to work out the calculations to get a portal to go both ways. I need to find a way to open one _before_ the eleventh pilgrimage - that solves the problem at a stroke."

"I'd suggest that the fact we're having this conversation would be a pretty strong indication that there's no damned solution at all." Malcolm snaps, crossly, "I assume you're intending to go back and try again with your accumulated knowledge?"

"At this point, I'd settle for going back; but, yes. I think so. Though I'd opt for sending the eleventh through unmolested, and trying again with the twelfth."

God above - is he mad? There might well be a fracture in time, but it's not customisable; it can be tethered when it opens, yes - but the passage of time at both ends is the same. It's not Narnia, for God's sake - a year at Hope Plaza is also a year in Terra Nova - Malcolm cannot hope to match the degree of mathematical knowledge that fires Lucas's genius; but even he knows that controllable time travel in the sense that Lucas is dreaming of can't possibly exist. If he opens a portal, then it'll open two years on from the destruction of Hope Plaza. Somewhere. What if the time fracture in the badlands doesn't even _go_ back to the future they left? Is he so fixated on his crazy project that he can't see that?

Apparently so. But then, unlike Lucas, Malcolm has no wish at all to return to 2149.

Then, unexpectedly, Lucas jumps down into the pit and lunges forward to grab at Malcolm's arm, "Time to go, I think. I have no idea if my dear darling Father is coming to your aid - though it would be a bracing experience to meet up with him again - but we should go, don't you agree?"

It takes several minutes for Lucas to drag Malcolm out of the locker, and its enclosing pit, and get him back out into the small clearing again. Retrieving the parang, Lucas slices through the cable ties that enclose his ankles, looped together as a hobble, "There. Come on - I take it you've still got that rover you get so possessive over?" he yanks Malcolm to his feet, pauses to retrieve a small backpack, which he sets on one shoulder, and the sonic rifle which he sets upon the other, and pushes him forward, away from Rob's body, and his own near-grave.

The walk is awkward, as his wrists are still bound, but Lucas appears not to be in any particular hurry, and he is able to maintain his balance as they emerge from the forest to the exterior of the outpost, where his rover is still parked.

"Excellent." Lucas beams, "In you get. I'll drive. What's the key code?"

"Are you serious?" Malcolm asks, "Do you really think I'll tell you? It's not like you've got two Sixers with a shock prod this time around, is it?"

"Suit yourself." Lucas sniffs, "I'll just do it the slow way." Shoving his prisoner aside, he uses the parang to jemmy open the access panel to the control board, then sighs, "Malcolm Wallace - I have to hand it to you. Tubby must've _really_ hated your ass. He's taken the power cell out. This rover's going nowhere."

"In which case, I presume," Malcolm advises, "neither are we."

"Of course we are." Lucas says, crossly, turning to him, "There's a rhino at the edge of the forest to get us back to the encampment, but until then it's gonna have to be…what do you colonial types call it? Shanks's Pony?"

"You want us to _walk_?"

"You scared?"

"What do you think? It's dangerous enough in daylight - but at _night_? We'd be a walking buffet menu!"

Lucas chuckles, "I like your description. What do you think I've been doing all these years in this damned forest? When darling _Daddy_ thought I was dead? Even with those cable ties on, there're plenty of places for you to get out of the way of the local predators. There's one barely a mile from here. I'd suggest we make a move, before our squabbling attracts any interested sets of jaws. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Lucas - forget it. I haven't got the first idea what your calculations look like - but you're trying to achieve the impossible. We might as well stay here. Why can't you just reconcile with your father?"

"And the funny keeps on coming. Why the hell would I want to _reconcile_ with the man who let my mother die in front of my eyes? Get moving. There's water and rations - so if you shut the hell up about my dear father, I might even let you have something to eat."

Lucas swings the sonic rifle off his shoulder, and jabs Malcolm with it. Even though he knows that Lucas - mad though he sounds - isn't crazy enough to kill the person he most wants to make use of, he knows he has no choice but to comply.

"It's nothing personal, Malcolm." Lucas adds, disinterestedly, "You're just a valuable commodity these days."

Fighting to conceal a sudden feeling of real misery, Malcolm allows Lucas to take the lead, and begins the enforced abandonment of his only hope of rescue.

* * *

The promised shelter turns out to be a cave set well back from anything resembling a track, the entrance extremely narrow - far too narrow, in fact, for anything of worrisome size to reach them once they've wriggled in themselves.

"Great. How am I supposed to get in?" Malcolm demands, turning slightly to display his bound wrists.

Lucas snorts, dismissively, and swings the backpack off his shoulder, "Do you really think I didn't raid the outpost? If I cut that cable tie off, I have plenty of spares. Don't think it'll be that easy. They come off while we're in there - but if you even think about trying something, they'll be back on again and you can just watch me enjoy the rations." Then he smiles, "Or, of course, you could just run off into the forest."

Malcolm looks at him, helplessly. Capable though he is - he has no worthwhile survival skills. Those that he was first taught when he arrived have long been forgotten, and he wouldn't last more than a few hours - if that - if he _did_ try to make a run for it. Like it or not, Lucas is his best hope for survival until something better comes along. Assuming something does.

Looking smug, Lucas severs the cable tie, and Malcolm is able to examine his wrists. The thin plastic has cut into his skin in several places - though not deeply. He is not bloody - but he is sore, and a night without the damned things on would be welcome. Best not to give any trouble, then.

Somewhere off in the distance, the distinctive, almost horn-like roar of a Carnotaurus filters to their ears. With a quick shove, Lucas pushes Malcolm to his knees and urges him toward the small hole. He is not a particularly heavy-set man - but even so it's one hell of a squeeze, and he has grazes on his elbows by the time he's inside.

Lucas, being more practised at such entry, is quicker about it, and hastily retrieves a glowstick from his pack, which grants him sufficient light to find a lantern. Once the illumination is more reliable, he delves into a grubby-looking plastic crate that has clearly been there a long time, and pulls out some military ration packs.

"Not exactly _haute cuisine_ , I'll grant you." He says, quite conversationally, "but you'll need the energy tomorrow, so you'd best eat up."

God knows what the contents of the pack is meant to be, and it's horribly cold and rather slimy in texture. Being extremely hungry however, despite his horrible experience, Malcolm is interested only in consuming it. Any calories at this point are better than none - even with just plain water to wash it down.

Having eaten the rather vile rations, he is now at something of a loose end. Lucas seems disinterested in speaking to him, so he leans back against the wall, massaging his sore wrists, and allowing his eyes to drift over the walls. Then he frowns; more of those bizarre glyphs that people used to wonder at - but which turned out to be calculations. It seems that Lucas has been doing more working out in here, too.

It's a level of physics and mathematics that he has never had the time to investigate; physics and chemistry having largely diverged as disciplines at some point in the early 20th century. The calculations are largely meaningless, and he cannot tell whether they are correct, wrong, or entirely fanciful. Some of it seems to have at least a degree of sense - but he can't link the various bits together.

"Is this new?" he asks, after a while - out of sheer curiosity.

"I'm nearly there." Lucas mumbles, tiredly, "There's a few things that I need to check to ensure that the algorithm's correct. If I can feed that into the systems of the terminus, and you can get it working, then I might be in with a chance of making contact with 2149 - and I can get back there and warn my employers before Shannon delivers his bomb."

Oh God. Not that again…

"What makes you think it's even possible for me to repair the terminus? The induction coils fried - your soldiers…"

"Do you think I'm stupid? It wasn't the soldiers who caused the coils to short out - you blew them, didn't you? Given that you never came back when you claimed you were going to the colony to get replacements. Hooper really believed you would - that's how desperate he is to get back. When we get to the encampment, I'm sure he'll have a few choice words to spit in your face." Lucas is smirking; he clearly anticipates quite an eventful conversation, then.

"Are you the reason why they're still there?"

"Not quite. Hooper is. He's fixed on getting back to 2149 - but then, he's got no idea how these things work. When I get a portal open, and I go back, then he's not gonna matter any more. The old version of him'll be ready and waiting to make the expedition all over again."

"You'd abandon them to die?" Malcolm stares at him, shocked.

"They were dead men the day Mira walked out. Besides, I wouldn't call it that. When I go back, then he'll be there, won't he? This version of him'll cease to exist."

"I wouldn't know. I don't watch science fiction."

"I'll do it." Lucas promises, his expression unpleasant, "I'll get the algorithm right; and, with your repairs, it'll be game over - I'll be back in 2149, and this time I'll know what you're all planning to get in my way. As soon as we get there, I'll kill Shannon in the lab - right in front of you, and you'll wonder how the hell I saw through your little ruse. Don't worry, I won't punish you again - I'll just bring in some of your staff and have them shot down one by one until you speed up your repairs to my satisfaction. I'll cut Bucket's treacherous little throat to make sure she doesn't betray me by dangling my father in front of my nose. Then, once you're finished repairing the terminus, and it's set up, I'll have Hooper shoot you through the head. No matter what you try, I'll counter it. I can't wait."

He's got it all planned out…and yet…somehow Malcolm knows that, regardless of Lucas's conviction that it's possible, it isn't. Even if he _can_ repair the terminus - which is highly unlikely given what he did to it - there's no way back. If there were, then this wouldn't be happening, would it? He has no real understanding of temporal mechanics; no one has - it's a speculative science at best, for God's sake! But Lucas has pinned all his hopes upon it, and convinced himself that he can make it a reality. God help everyone in that encampment when he's finally proved wrong.

Malcolm sighs, and looks across at Lucas, who appears to be asleep. Should he risk it? Would he be able to find his way back to the outpost?

No. He knows he'd get hopelessly lost. Best to get to that encampment. At least Taylor knows where it is. If there's any hope that he can be found, then his best bet is to follow Lucas into the Badlands. Better that than being stuck alone in the middle of the forest where anything could get him - and make him break his promise to Max. _Max…_ oh God, what on earth is this going to do to her after what happened to Niall? The very thought of what she must be going through if she knows he's in danger is more than he can bear to endure - she loves him, and he's hurting her without even bloody trying. Feeling unutterably miserable, he forces the tears back, closes his eyes and stretches out to get what sleep he can.

* * *

He is woken by a sharp jab in his ribs, "Come on, sleeping beauty. Time to move. Out you go. I'll follow."

Sighing, Malcolm sits up, rubs his hands through his dishevelled hair, and crawls back to the hole. Getting out is no easier than getting in, and his already sore elbows are even worse by the time he is outside. Again, he is briefly tempted to flee - but he hasn't the first idea where he is, and without that, where will he find himself? Wanting Taylor to find him won't make it happen.

Then Lucas is behind him, rifle in hand, "On your knees - hands behind your back."

With no alternative, he does as he is told, and another cable tie is secured about his wrists. Pinioned again, he has little option but to move as Lucas pushes him forward, "Come on. It's a long hike to the next stop."

They tramp in silence for a while. Such is his mood, that Malcolm has no wish to talk to the man behind him. Lucas, however, has no such qualms.

"How is my father these days?"

"He's very well. He's been a good leader: the colony's thriving under his command."

"Even without Alicia?" Lucas's tone is so unpleasant that Malcolm stops dead, and can't stop himself from turning to glare at the man who killed her, "That's nothing. She died fast - that was _nothing_ compared to what they did to my mother. And _he_ let it happen."

He doesn't know the details, but Malcolm is well aware of the appalling choice that Taylor had been required to make: his wife, or his son. Like any parent would, he chose his child - his wife would never have forgiven him if he had chosen otherwise. What kind of monster demands that sort of choice? Is it even a choice at all? It's not one that he's ever had to face - being childless; but what would happen if he were forced to choose between Max and their child - assuming that they were to have children? How could he do it? And yet Taylor had done it. Lose one, or lose both…

"He could've done something. If he's so all powerful, then he could've saved her. But he didn't."

"He chose you - and she would've done the same. It's what parents do - make sacrifices for their children." He hates to remember that time - the time that his mother had been forced to sell her wedding ring to find money to bribe border officials and pay for a rail ticket from Carlisle to London…the only real memory he has now of that ghastly journey south is of crying himself to sleep on her lap. Perhaps not on the same scale - but his mother never once - _once_ showed even the vaguest hint of resentment to him for the decisions she made to shield him from the fallout surrounding his father's indictment. To protect him, she would've given her own life - of that he is certain. Doesn't Lucas realise that it's love that saved him? His parents' collective love for him that kept him still breathing? And it's not as though he's been left without either parent - he still has his father; a father who, despite all, still loves him…

It's more than he, Malcolm, has.

"Crap. He could've done something. Why didn't he offer to die instead?" Lucas complains.

"Was he given that option?"

Silence.

"Thought not."

"Shut up and keep moving." Lucas jabs him in the back with the rifle.

They walk in silence again for a while, but it seems that Lucas just can't keep quiet about his grievances, "God, when I get back, I'll be ready. I'll make him pay for that choice."

"Oh, for God's sake."

"What's it to you?"

" _Both_ of my parents are dead. I'd lost them both before I was twenty eight: COPD. They both effectively drowned in their own lung fluids. If you think that's an easy death, then bloody well try it for yourself." He can't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"You mean you're free of them?" Lucas asks, almost with admiration.

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"My God - that must be a real sense of freedom. No obligations, no weight. God, I'd love it if I could say that about my father."

"You have _no_ idea what it's like!" Malcolm suddenly shouts at him, "You selfish, snivelling ingrate! Your mother _willingly_ sacrificed her life to save you - there's no way; no way _on_ _earth_ that she would've wanted to live in your place - what loving mother would? And you want to sully that incredible bravery and selflessness by whingeing endlessly about how much you hate your father? There's only one person to blame in this - and that's the person who made your father make that choice, and then acted on it. God above! I had no idea you were so pathetic!" He stops abruptly, nervous that his words will serve only to cause Lucas to act against him with violence; though, for a moment, he is vaguely hopeful that they might even get through to the idiot.

He is rather taken aback when they appear to do neither.

"It's not important." Lucas says, dismissively, "When I get back to 2149, I can start over again, and get what I've wanted from the moment I was first dumped here. What does it matter what you think of me? It's hardly important given that, when I've come back, I'll have the pleasure of watching Hooper blow your brains out."

"Frankly, at this point, that sounds a better option than listening to your whingeing."

"Then don't listen." Lucas jabs him with the rifle again, and he plods on.

God alone knows what they're going to talk about when they reach this next promised stop. Once again, Malcolm's only protection is his ability to repair the terminus - but what'll happen when it becomes clear to everyone that it's beyond repair? That's something over which he has no wish at all to speculate.


	20. Who has the Better Hand

Chapter Twenty

 _Who Has the Better Hand_

It's been a horribly long journey, bouncing down rutted tracks that keep their progress appallingly slow. Every so often, there are signs of activity, branches cut back, fallen debris cleared from the road. At least the fact that Malcolm has already travelled this way means they've had the mess cleared up for them.

"This is gonna break Max into pieces." Jim says, grimly, "Once she knows that Robert Stanley is behind the attacks. She thought Malcolm would be safe with him. We all did."

"She's stronger than you think, Shannon." Taylor disagrees, concentrating on the track ahead, "Yes, she'll come apart - but she'll put herself back together; though whether she'll ever let anyone near her again will be debatable. I let her down over Niall. I swear to God I'm not going to let her down over Malcolm."

"I messaged Elisabeth to go see her: it's better she knows from us than find out from gossip. This'll be all over the compound by noon."

"God - how is it that everyone came through on the Sixth with ulterior motives?"

"Not everyone, Taylor." Jim reminds him. "Just the Sixers and Stanley."

"It sure as hell feels like everyone." Taylor observes, sourly, as he squints ahead, the bright lamps atop the rover startling a pair of Ovosaurs off the track and back into the forest, "Why didn't this show up in the psych tests?" he adds, rather pointlessly.

"Maybe because Robert's not nuts? I was a cop for years and I saw everything you could imagine, not to mention a whole lot more that you wouldn't want to, even compared to battlefields. It's possible to hate someone so much that destroying them becomes your prime motivation; and still be perfectly sane. Hate's one of the strongest motivators I know: I'm pretty sure that only love is stronger, but that's not by much."

"Two sides of the same coin."

"Don't dump me out of the rover for this, Taylor, but; given Malcolm's motives for getting Elisabeth here, are you completely convinced that he's as innocent in this as he makes out?"

"Christ, Shannon - he can be a complete idiot, sure; but he's never put his personal feelings ahead of the welfare of the colony and he sure as hell isn't _that_ stupid. When he recommended Elisabeth, I didn't just take his word for it: He thought she just had Josh and Maddy - and that you were pretty much finished thanks to the conditions at Golad - he lost both his parents to COPD and, given that you were away for six years, the chances of you seeing daylight again were minimal at best for the same reason. He thought he was offering her and her kids a new life: if there was a chance of getting back together, then fair enough - but recruiting the best for the colony was what pushed it. Did he make any attempt to interfere once he met you?"

"Well…there was that time when he had the amnesia virus…"

"I mean when he _wasn't_ compromised, Shannon."

"No." Jim admits, "He didn't. Elisabeth would've told me if he did."

"And kicked his ass square over the line." Taylor smirks, suddenly, "She's one tough lady, that wife of yours."

"She sure is." He looks up, and shifts slightly, "There's the outpost."

"And Malcolm's rover."

Taylor pulls up alongside. From the outside, there doesn't appear to be anything strange about the scene at all. The rover is parked tidily, the safety gate is closed, and so is the door beyond it. Above them, through a gap in the canopy, Jim can see the first streaks of dawn staining the sky. It's taken them all damn night to get there - and there's no guarantee that they've arrived in time.

The first indication that all is not as it should be is the dusty powder on the floor just inside the entrance. It's been scuffed about, as though something's been moved around on it, and it smells a bit weird; like musty socks.

"Up there." Taylor indicates with the point of his pistol. Following the point, Jim looks up to the ceiling and can make out what looks like the blown-out remains of a small pod-like structure - woven from fibres of some sort or another.

"Some kind of bomb?" he ventures.

"Chemical weapon, I think." Taylor says, "Judging from the mess on the floor. It looks like this was booby trapped."

"And the trap was sprung."

Moving with care, they make their way slowly down the corridor. There's certainly been some form of fight - if that device at the door was anything to go by. If they're in luck, then Robert's not the sort of person to allow his quarry to die without some sort of Bond villain-like gloat-fest, and he may well have Malcolm imprisoned somewhere - in order to regale him at length over the reasons for his capture. Neither man wants to think what they might find if they're _not._

There's no sign of anyone in the main laboratory, though a fallen scaffolding pole in the middle of the floor is testament to the fact that Malcolm did not succumb without a fight. The weapon is too improvised to have been Stanley's; not when he's had as long as he has to put this whole shooting match together. Perhaps he's knocked the man out, and is now hiding somewhere.

"Do we shout?" Jim whispers to Taylor.

"No - if Stanley has him somewhere, then we'll just prompt him to do something stupid. Let's split up. You go left, I'll go right. When you've searched your sector, meet me back at the Main lab. If you find anyone," he lifts up his comm unit, "Send two clicks and withdraw to the main lab."

Jim nods. Pistol at the ready, he makes his way down the indicated corridor. The silence in the place is eerie; and, regardless of his hopes, he is quite certain that there is no one alive in here. Surely there would be signs of life? Movement? Voices? Either they're not here - or they're…

He pulls the thought up at once. He can't afford to think that - if Malcolm is dead, then what the hell are they going to tell Max? For her sake, if nothing else, they have to find him alive. They must…

He rounds a corner and finds a dead end. That's it then - no one in his sector. Now to work out how the hell to get back to the Main lab.

When he emerges, he is not surprised to find Taylor waiting for him, "I got nothing. You?"

Jim shakes his head, "Where the hell are they? Has Robert taken him outside somewhere?"

"Only one way to find out."

It's full daylight by the time they emerge, and sunlight is dappling the forest floor. If they weren't facing the situation that they are, then it would be a great day to be out.

"They could be anywhere." Jim observes, tiredly; then turns to Taylor, who is looking about, and sniffing.

"Smell that? Woodsmoke."

"They came outside? What - to bond over a campfire or something?"

"We can hope." Already, Taylor is looking about, and points at something that may, or may not, be a track, "Let's try this."

The smell grows stronger as they make their way through the thick foliage. Both men have their pistols ready - such a route is an ideal ambush point - but they see nothing until they emerge into a small clearing.

"This has been cleared by hand." Taylor advises, quietly, then pauses and points, "There."

Jim has also seen it, and grimaces. Beside the smoking remains of the fire lies a corpse - or at least part of one. A leg has been chewed almost down to the bone, while the abdomen has been largely eviscerated: "Nykoraptor?" he ventures.

Taylor nods, "Didn't kill him, though. Look at his neck." He crouches beside the mess, and points with his pistol. Joining him, Jim looks closer, and sees the deep slash through the throat. No dinosaur would've done that - it must've been a blade.

"Malcolm?" he asks.

"Can't see him doing something like this - not even in a panic. Besides, if he did, where is he? Why didn't he go back to the outpost and call for help?"

Rising again, Taylor begins to explore the clearing, moving towards a mound of earth, "Shannon."

Immediately, Jim crosses to join him, "What the hell?"

They are looking down into an earthen pit, which contains a battered, rather customised aluminum locker. The door is open, but it's clear that the locker had been buried at some point, then dug up again.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Taylor murmurs, his expression very grim.

"Christ - are you suggesting that this was Robert? That he tried to bury Malcolm alive?"

"I'd say so." He turns back to the corpse, "Which begs the question: if Malcolm was underground in that locker, how the hell did he get out and kill Robert Stanley?"

"He couldn't have done." Jim says, pointing, "He was locked in - look, there's the remains of a padlock down there. Someone smashed it off. Presumably with the shovel while they were digging him up."

"Yeah - but that still doesn't give any hint as to who it was, does it?" Taylor says, then turns, sharply, at the sound of rustling in the nearby bushes. Lowering his pistol towards the noise, he calls out, in a much louder voice, "Malcolm - is that you?"

Silence - except for more rustling.

"I've got a sonic pistol trained in your direction on maximum setting. Get out here where I can see you, or I start firing."

Both men stare in astonishment as the hidden watcher emerges.

"God - how is it that you were so noisy?" Jim asks, "Having an off day?"

Mira's eyes are narrowed, and hostile, "Don't be ridiculous. I've been trailing you ever since you arrived. I only wanted to make sure you didn't shoot me down, so I made myself more noticeable. Put that gun down, Commander - if you shoot me, then I can't tell you what I know, and your precious Chief Science Officer's a dead man."

* * *

"What the hell are you doing here, Mira?" Taylor asks, his voice thick with dislike.

"Searching out new hunting grounds. Now that we're in business together, I don't want to risk us depopulating the Gallusaur stocks so that your people can keep enjoying their steak sandwiches." She says offhandedly, "I saw the rover outside the outpost entrance, but I didn't get the opportunity to investigate it. There was too much shouting going on."

"Shouting?"

"Well, that's one way of describing the sound of Malcolm Wallace begging for his life."

"Don't push your luck Mira. What the hell happened?"

She leans back against the trunk of a tree, "Well. I could tell you - but then what? No. I think that, if you want to know what I know, then it's time we made a deal. Isn't it?"

"Not a chance, Mira. You tell us where Malcolm is, and I'll consider renegotiating."

She shakes her head, "If you really think I'm going to put all the chips in your hands, and then hope that you'll let me have some of them back, then this conversation ends here, and it ends now. Go find Doctor Wallace on your own." She folds her arms and regards him calmly and with mild disinterest.

"And leave him to die out here?"

"Believe me, I can wait. So can he; for now. Hear me out: I take you to where he's gone, and help you get him back. In exchange, you agree to re-admit my people back into Terra Nova. No prejudice, no conditions, no sanctions. We have skills you could use and we need a safe haven. That's my offer: take it or leave it."

"Screw that. Just get your people back to the Phoenix group where you all belong." Taylor snaps, furiously.

Mira rolls her eyes, "I take it you weren't listening when I told you about those idiots? The Phoenix soldiers are finished. Chances are there are none left - we were all that were keeping them alive, remember? They're a spent force - and if they're still alive out there, then it'll be a miracle."

"And they're still there?"

"Bound to be. Hooper's not moving."

"Hooper? Is _he_ the reason they've stayed?" Jim asks.

"He's got one reason to keep going, Shannon. One and one alone - getting back to 2149. Whatever he has to do, he'll do it; though I'm surprised he hasn't sent a team to get his hands on Wallace. Whatever they think they can do, they can't do it until he's mended that stupid terminus."

"Never mind that. Where's Malcolm? If you were here, you saw what happened."

"I did. Didn't I?" she smiles, "Okay - as a show of good faith, here's what I'll do: I'll tell you what happened here. Then you agree to my terms and we take it from there."

Taylor rolls his eyes, "Just tell me, Mira."

"It's simple, really. Who was the guy that Wallace was with? Chubby, dishevelled."

"One of our botanists."

"Doesn't matter who he was, really; but he hated Wallace. I'll give him that - he must've done; judging by the state of that locker, he enlarged it to hold a human being, so that would've taken some work. He had him secured with cable ties - hands _behind_ his back, no less, and dumped him face down in the locker. Even if he'd used a cardboard box, there was no way Wallace was going to be able to dig his way out of that."

The two men watch her in sullen silence. Shrugging, she continues, "Once he'd locked it and shoved it into the hole, he started dumping earth onto it. And then he was shot down with his own sonic rifle. It seems I wasn't the only person in the area. Hooper had someone, too."

"What did they do?" Jim asks, though he can guess.

"Carved fatty's throat open with his own machete and then got to work digging Wallace back up again." Mira shrugs.

"And it never occurred to you to intervene?"

"The man had a sonic rifle. What did you expect me to do? Besides, with blood in the air, how long d'you think it would've been before something came to investigate? No - they talked a while, then he took Wallace away - presumably to take his rover. I got up a tree pretty damn quick. Just as well - it wasn't long before a Nyko turned up."

"So you don't know where they went?" Taylor says, cynically.

"Of course I do. It was one of Hooper's lot, wasn't it?" Mira says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world, and Taylor is an idiot for not realising it.

"So this person's taken Malcolm back to the encampment in the Badlands? Why the hell would we need you to tell us where _that_ is? We found it weeks ago."

"And you think you can approach it undetected? You could get within a mile at most, and then they'd throw everything they have at you - and probably include Wallace's corpse into the bargain. There's only one way to get to it without being seen - and you'll never find it without me."

"Believe me, I can try." Taylor opts not to mention Guzman's expedition.

"Have you any idea how far out they are? If you've got enough water to get there, then be my guest. They started out with everything they needed - rations, water, survival equipment. But the rations are nearly gone, the equipment's failing. They haven't got anyone who can repair it properly - and certainly not since we left them. Even if they can't get him to do anything else, he'll be good for repairing water condensers and recyclers; they haven't got anyone else who could do it."

"What about the terminus?" Jim asks.

"I saw what Wallace did to it. Hooper knows damn all about electronics - if he thinks that it's repairable then he's living in a fantasy land. The best he can hope for is that Wallace can keep them in water while the lot of them starve to death. Basically," she looks up at Taylor with a rather smug air, "You've got as long as it takes a man in reasonable health to die of starvation to make your decision."

"Forget it. We'll find him ourselves."

"Then you'll find his dead body - assuming you even _get_ there. They'll see you coming long before you get anywhere near their perimeter - and they'll take the pair of you out. Who'll rescue your precious Science Officer then?"

Taylor glares at her.

"I'm right - and you know it. Just accept that." Mira smiles at him, "I think the cards are in my favour this time, don't you? I have the better hand. Give me what I want, and I'll help you rescue Wallace. How about you make a start by giving me his rover?"

He says nothing, but jerks his head to the side, an indication that she should follow them. Knowing that they have no alternative, Jim offers no objection, and follows. They could, of course, pause to bury the remains of Robert Stanley - but with time as precious as it is, and given what he did, why bother? Let the scavengers have the rest of him. Perhaps he should feel appalled at his indifference to the abandonment of human remains; but how could Max ever forgive them if they lost the man she loves because they were busy burying the mortal remains of the man who tried to kill him?

The vehicles are still parked up beside the safety cage when they return, unmolested by man or beast. Her expression verging on the triumphant, Mira seats herself at the wheel of Malcolm's rover, "I take it you have an override?"

Taylor rolls his eyes, "655798900."

She punches in the code, and the engine sputters briefly, then fails. Frowning, she tries again. And again.

"Er. Mira." Jim is looking at the rear of the vehicle, "It looks like Robert's foiled your plan. The back panel's off and it looks like he's removed the power cell: that rover's going nowhere."

Scowling, she emerges and marches round to the rear of the vehicle to join Jim, "Damn him."

"Just when you thought you'd scored yourself a new set of wheels." Jim smirks at her, receiving a vicious glare in return.

"It looks as though Stanley thought of pretty much everything." Taylor says, quietly, "If Hooper's man hadn't intervened, then Malcolm would be dead."

Mira looks at him coldly, "If you don't agree to my deal, Taylor - then he still may well end up that way. What's your decision?"

* * *

Taylor's scowl almost matches Mira's when she emerged from the rover, "That's a choice that's no choice. Accept your ragtag band, or lose a valued member of my team."

"Valued?" she laughs again, "I thought we'd had that conversation: the lot of you think he's a pompous jerk. Are you out here because you want to get him back, or because he's a valuable commodity that you can't afford to do without?"

"There is not _one_ single individual in the Colony who could be considered to be nothing more than a commodity, Mira," Taylor snarls, furiously, "Regardless of anyone's comments about Malcolm, he's a human being, not an object, and he's part of our family. We could manage without his expertise if we had to: he's not the only scientist in Terra Nova - we've got at least six people who can work together to replace his knowledge if it comes down to it. Yes: he can be a pain in the ass - but so can anyone else inside that compound. We accept his faults as much as his virtues - and he _does_ have virtues, dammit - that's what families do. If you talk about him like that again, then I swear to God I'm gonna make you run along behind that damn rover when we move out."

"Is that what _you_ think, Shannon?" Mira taunts, quietly, "D'you think I don't know why Wallace recruited your wife?"

"Don't even go there, Mira." Jim sighs, "You wouldn't know why he did it unless you can see inside his head. Whatever his motives were, his choice got me, and my family, out of that filthy world and into a better one. _You_ might want to go back there, but I sure as hell don't. The water's so far under that bridge that it's made its way to the ocean and disappeared. He's no threat to my marriage, so don't try to pretend that he is."

"I wouldn't. Isn't he screwing a metalworker now?"

"What was that about making her run along behind?" Jim asks Taylor, crossly.

"Much as I'm enjoying our fascinating conversation," Taylor advises, "The longer it goes on, the longer Malcolm's in trouble. Get into the rover, Mira."

"You haven't given me an answer." She insists, stubbornly, "We come back into the Colony, or you fail to rescue Wallace. You need to make sure he's safe. I need to do the same with my people - we can't sustain our habitation much longer. If you don't agree, then I don't help you. Simple as that. If I lose, then so do you."

Taylor regards her for a moment. To an uncharitable observer, Mira's behaviour might be considered to be pure spite; but he can see her eyes - and there's concern there. Her people really _are_ on the verge of dying. She's just as interested in keeping them alive as he is in keeping the Colonists alive. Their motives are - in the end - identical.

"Fair enough." He concedes, "You help us retrieve Malcolm, and, in return, you and your people return to Terra Nova. You become full members of the Colony - no arguments, no restrictions, no caveats - and we draw a line in the sand."

She nods.

"But if he dies," Taylor adds, "Then the deal's off and you can stay out in the woods until there's none of you left. How's that for motivation?"

"And what if Hooper kills him on the spot?" Mira asks, "You have no idea - none at all - how much Hooper wants to hurt him for destroying the terminus. Assuming he survives whatever punishment Hooper throws at him, he's still got to try and repair it."

"But why? It's a piece of useless junk if Hope Plaza's toast." Jim adds, "Were you able to make contact with anyone in 2149 after the terminus blew?"

Mira shrugs, "No idea. Hooper blocked me out of communications with anyone of any kind. Whether he can or he can't, it doesn't matter. He wants to get back and he'll torture Wallace if he has to to make him repair that damned terminus."

Taylor is staring at her, "Why all this determination about the terminus? Even if Malcolm _could_ repair it - which even _he_ thinks is highly unlikely - what good would it do? You can anchor a fracture - but what about the other end? Presumably you'd need to have a connection there in order to go both ways - and, last I saw, the Phoenix Group were fresh out of particle accelerators."

"That's not the plan." Mira says, calmly, "They don't want to connect to Hope Plaza in 2151. They want to do it back in 2149 - prior to the departure of the eleventh pilgrimage."

"Is that even _possible_?" Jim asks, concerned.

"Of course it isn't. The fracture just opens and closes - it can't be adjusted - the two ends move constantly forward in time between the two eras that they connect. Even _I_ know that and I'm just a grubby survivalist who used to have feathers in her hair." Mira's tone is derisive, presumably quoting someone's insult.

"So how does Hooper think he can use the terminus to go back to a predetermined point in the future's past? For want of a better word." Jim frowns slightly, trying to make sense of the terminology that he's attempting to describe.

"He doesn't. Does he?" Suddenly, Taylor sounds very, very weary, "There's only one person who could even start to find a way to pull that off."

Mira watches him, almost warily, as though she expects him to explode, but nods.

"Lucas? Lucas is still alive?" Jim asks, and then plunges on, suddenly angry, "You knew, didn't you? Right from the start - you knew, and you didn't tell us that he made it. He was shot - twice! How the hell did he survive that?"

"How do you think? Hate's an incredibly strong motivator. He was appallingly injured, but he made his way back to the perimeter, and one of my men found him. Hooper demanded that he come along - we couldn't do anything without him. It took nearly eight months for him to fully recover - and then it was all 'terminus' this and 'terminus' that. Hooper wouldn't have known where to start. Lucas thinks that he's found a way to make the fracture deposit him back at Hope Plaza at a time of his choosing."

"He was here last night." Taylor adds, quietly, "Wasn't he? He was the one who killed Stanley and took Malcolm. 'Hooper's man'."

Mira nods, still keeping her distance.

"If I didn't need you to get me to the encampment and retrieve Malcolm, then… _God_ , I'd kill you where you stand. You've known all along that my son is still alive, and you didn't tell us. The _one thing_ we most needed to know - and you kept it to yourself. If we'd known, then I would _never_ have let Malcolm go OTG. And I wouldn't be having to face the possibility of having to tell the woman who loves him that he's dead."

"It was my final bargaining chip." She says simply, but without regret, "What would you have done in my position?"

For a moment, it looks as though the impending explosion is going to detonate; but instead, Taylor's scowl grows even deeper, and he jabs his finger towards their rover, "Get in the back."

"And then what?"

"We retrieve Malcolm, and then I decide whether or not your silence about my son has just cost you our deal."


	21. The Box

Chapter Twenty One

 _The Box_

"Oh, for God's sake. Not again." Lucas complains, "Why the hell can't you stay upright?"

Because he can't bloody balance: that's why. He'd say so, but the fall has squashed all the air out of his lungs, and he can't actually get any words out. With his wrists pinioned behind his back, Malcolm has found the walk far harder than Lucas; as, without the use of his arms, his ability to correct his balance is highly compromised. Worse, when he _does_ fall, he can't save himself. Consequently, he has grazes on his knees and his face; something has torn the seam of his sleeve away from the right shoulder of his shirt, leaving a gape that has already attracted at least one insect bite, and he is sure that he'll have a magnificent black eye later today, though the swelling is currently threatening to force his left eye entirely shut.

Gradually, he manages to get his breath back, and wriggles onto his side to try and roll himself back onto his knees again. The skin being badly grazed, doing so is very painful, and he groans as he is obliged to take his entire weight on to a tender kneecap in order to prepare himself to stand.

It would, of course, be considerably quicker and easier if Lucas helped him; but given how much the ghastly man is making Malcolm's skin crawl, he is grateful that no assistance is being offered. He is not entirely sure that he could bring himself to accept it, and Lucas is quite annoyed enough.

For a moment, his throat narrows, and he can feel tears pricking at his eyes. God alone knows where they are - he hasn't the first idea. How the hell is Taylor going to find them? Is he even going to see his home again? _I want to go home. Oh God, I want to go home…_

He hovers on the edge of the precipice, just for a few moments; before an impatient grunt from Lucas reminds him where he is, and who he is with. No. No he won't break. He won't give Lucas the satisfaction of watching him come apart. Damn him. Taylor will be looking for him by now; and won't give up. If not for his sake, then for the sake of Yseult - for her, he'd never stop looking. He couldn't save Niall, there's no way he'd ever allow himself to do the same thing again.

 _Don't think of Max. Don't think of her. Don't…don't…_

His eyes squeezed tight shut, Malcolm starts to multiply in his head, forcing himself to concentrate on the numbers. If he lets himself think about Yseult, then he really _will_ go to pieces. He can't afford to do it - nor can he afford to feel sorry for himself. It has to stop. He has to hang onto that hope that Taylor won't abandon him. He wouldn't have done it before the occupation, so he certainly won't now.

"You done?" Lucas asks, boredly, "We could, if you like, stay here for the next few hours until something gets us. If it does, then I'm afraid I'm not using the sonic to save you."

Equilibrium restored, Malcolm raises his head and eyes Lucas with hostility, "I'm 'done', as you put it. If I'm going to walk, then I need to be able to breathe."

"You think my Father's coming to get you, don't you?" Lucas says, casually, as they resume their walk, "He won't, you know. Why waste resources? You're valuable, yes, but more to me than to him at the moment. If I remember, everyone was immediately willing to believe that you were repairing that terminus because you saw it as an intellectual challenge - or you were too cowardly to object."

"They know what really happened now, Lucas; that I wouldn't do anything until it became clear that people would die if I didn't."

"He didn't trust you with his whereabouts, did he? If he had, I'm positive you'd have blabbed in the end." Lucas turns to him, "Someone must've told you, though - otherwise you would've gone back to the colony instead of disappearing into the forest. Who was it that Taylor trusted more than you?"

"It wasn't a question of trust. It was a question of protection; why tell people and risk having them tortured? At least you only inflicted that on me. If I didn't know, then who else would've?"

"It was Bucket." Lucas says, more to himself, than Malcolm, "Of course it was. Once he knew about her mother, she was flavour of the month again. It must be nice to know that Taylor trusted a spy more than he trusted you."

"Why are you blaming Taylor? How could he have told me anything? He was outside - we were inside. He had no way of getting messages in. If anyone's to blame for not telling me, it'd be Jim Shannon. He found Taylor's bullets with his co-ordinates carved on them - but didn't tell anyone who didn't need to know - and he was right to keep it quiet. How many other people would you have had tasered, Lucas? Anyone except Skye - am I right? But then, you thought she'd switched sides, so she was the only member of the resistance who was actually safe."

"Resistance. I like that - and you think you were a part of that?"

"I _was_ a part of it, you idiot. Why do you think it took so long to mend the bloody terminus? I could've had it working in a quarter of the time, but I kept it as slow as I could. When Jim was back on his feet, and we knew where Taylor was, we were ready to get started on taking our home back. Did you _really_ believe he'd lost his hearing, and his concussion was as bad as I made out that it was?"

Lucas utters a sort of amusement, "And there I was thinking that everyone hated your guts for being a cowardly turncoat."

"They did; for a while, at least. Until Jim told them about McCormick - and they realised that you wouldn't have stopped with him if I hadn't agreed to help you. Once they knew about that - my stock went right back up."

Lucas shrugs and chooses to fall silent. Now that he is no longer concentrating on the conversation Malcolm notices that the trees are starting to thin out. In less than another half hour, they emerge into stubby grassland, and - as promised - a rhino is awaiting them.

* * *

"Take a seat." Lucas says, shoving Malcolm to the ground, "I'll check there are no nasty surprises in the back." It seems that even he is not reckless enough to leave someone waiting for him.

Now that he is out of the cover of the trees, Malcolm squints painfully against the brightness of the light, and is surprised at the increase in temperature. The worst of the summer is yet to hit - but out here, it's hard to believe that. With no shade, the sun is beating down quite uncomfortably. It must be in the upper twenties celsius, possibly even into the low thirties. For a moment, he considers asking Lucas if he has any water - but somehow, he is convinced that, if he does, Lucas will refuse to allow him to drink. Unlike his father, Lucas Taylor is extraordinarily vindictive, and has a vicious cruel streak: best not to awaken it.

Watching his captor, Malcolm briefly toys with the idea of attempting to escape; and, again, rejects it. He can't use his hands - the cable tie is just too strong, and if he tries to break it, its thinness bites into his wrists. The only means he has of cutting it would almost certainly be the parang, which Lucas is carrying at his waist. Assuming he could even get it out of its holster, would he have time to set it somewhere so he could cut through the plastic before Lucas recovered from any blow that he could inflict? With no means of driving the rhino while he is bound, any attempt would get him nowhere, and would almost certainly make matters worse. No. There's no point. Best to wait until they reach the encampment, and hope to God that Taylor works out that's where he's been taken.

"Wise move." Lucas observes, as he sees that Malcolm has stayed where he is, "I've put so much into this that I'd hate to have to throw it away by killing you."

"Even you're not that much of a twat."

"Twat? How picturesque. I find your old-world vernacular so charming." He indicates the passenger side of the rhino, "Up."

Awkwardly, painfully, Malcolm clambers to his feet again, and seats himself in the cab. The only good thing about this is that he's not going to have to walk any more, "How much further?"

Lucas gets behind the wheel, "About five hours."

"five _hours_?" Malcolm stares at him, "How bloody far out are you all?"

"About 150 miles. We had to get to the point where the fracture opens - what did you expect? A shopping mall and all amenities? It's not like we can whistle and get it to chase after us. I have to go no faster than 30 miles an hour, or we could end up dead in that terrain." He starts up the engine.

"I'd discuss my algorithm with you," Lucas resumes as they pull away, "but I guess you're not smart enough to understand the math."

"I'm smart enough to think it's a load of bollocks."

"My, my, my: you're seriously throwing out the Anglo-Saxon, aren't you? I seem to have touched a nerve."

"How many people have you condemned to death with this rubbish, Lucas?" Malcolm asks, suddenly, "The impression I get is that they've got barely a month left on their current rations, and with nothing being hunted, it's pretty much the end for the lot of them."

"Once the terminus is working, it's hardly going to matter anymore. It's all I need. You can repair it, while I finalise my calculations. Then it'll be done, and I'll be back in 2149, ready to try again."

"I suppose then that, if you fail a second time, you'll just keep on doing it over and over again, until you get it right? Like one of those stupid time-loop episodes they do on television shows from time to time? Not that I've seen any - but I'm told they're ridiculously stupid. Rather like your idea, in fact."

"Actually, I won't have Hooper shoot you next time. I'll have him crucify you from a couple of trees. You can watch your failure, and _then_ die."

"Just as well there won't be a next time."

"That's your limitation, Malcolm. No imagination - no vision. Just think what you could achieve if you weren't so bound up with your procedures and protocols. Did you know that Charles Snow said that anyone could've come with the Special Theory of Relativity? And they could've: it was an idea that was sitting about just waiting to be had. But with the _General_ Theory, on the other hand, it was so radical, so utterly non-intuitive, that, if Einstein hadn't thought of it, then no one would've, and we'd still be waiting for it even now. _That's_ what a genius does: thinks outside the box."

"I know what Snow said about the theories of Relativity, Lucas, and I have no issue with what you're saying. No one's denying your brilliance: no one ever has, and they wouldn't. It's what you're trying to _do_ with that brilliance that I take issue with. I keep within procedures and protocols for a reason: how many innocent people have had to pay for the consequences of your brilliance? At the end of the day, all it's really done is serve the furtherance of a personal vendetta."

"And we're back to my Father again. He took everything from me - don't you get it? I want him to know what that feels like."

"You think he _doesn't_?" Malcolm stares at Lucas, "He lost his wife, and then he lost his son - he knows _exactly_ what it feels like!"

"No." Lucas says, with horrible firmness, "Don't you believe it. He _chose_ to have my mother murdered. He didn't lose her - he threw her away, and then he threw _me_ away. Until he's lost everything he's ever built, he won't come close to knowing what he did to me."

Fed up with trying, and rather closer to losing his temper than he feels is sensible, or safe, Malcolm turns his attention to the limited view through the louvred windows. The grassland is becoming increasingly scrubby, the ground increasingly dusty. Small dromeosaurids, probably Buitreraptors, are fleeing about in all directions as the Rhino barrels along. Presumably, these were the creatures that the Sixers were hunting for the encampment. The cab is oppressively warm, and he's walked a long, long way. He lets his head rest against the frame of the cab, only to find that the rattling and vibration are too distracting. Hell, he'll never get any sleep like this…

"Wake up." A vicious prod in his ribs, "Welcome to your new home."

Sharply, Malcolm sits up, and squints through the louvres. From what he can see, the place looks like a complete and utter shambles. Mira wasn't kidding, it seems: they really are on their last legs.

"Lean forward." Lucas orders. He complies, and feels as much as hears the snap of the plastic as his cable tie is cut, "You could run now if you want - but you'd not get a mile away."

His hands free again, Malcolm opens the cab door and looks out. Now that he can see properly, matters are not improving.

"Let me tell you something." Lucas says, confidentially, "I cannot _wait_ to see your reunion with Mr Hooper."

* * *

To describe morale as 'low' would probably rank as one of the great understatements of human history. Sitting at a camp table in what can best be described as an aluminium hut with louvres, looking at what's left of the inventory, Commander Hooper scowls. Where the hell is Lucas? If he doesn't get his calculations done, and the terminus repaired, then they'll all be dead before they can get back to 2149. But then, if that treacherous scientist hadn't set up the damned thing to blow, then he wouldn't be here, would he?

They've got enough to last a week; though if he can get his remaining soldiers to successfully hunt those dinosaur-bird things that Mira and her crew used to bring back in droves, then they've got something to live on. Otherwise, it's boiled scrub-grass - assuming they can find the stuff in the mass of rock and sand that they now call home. The first thing he's gonna do when he gets back home is go out and order the biggest steak he can find.

Shoving the battered plex aside, ignoring the screen's rather terminal-looking flicker, he calls in one of his men, "Katz; break out the men. Inspection."

"Sir." The man departs from the hut. The men'll hate him for it, but at least it's something to do.

How the hell did it happen? They had the upper hand: armed to the teeth, backed with better technology, greater in numbers; and yet all Taylor needed to wreck it all was one small piece of sabotage in the forest, and one damned big one back at Hope Plaza. He hadn't expected the colonists to be willing to cut themselves off from the future; and, in doing so, cut _him_ off, too. He hadn't known at the time that the terminus had been sabotaged, either: if he had, then he would've sent a soldier with that engineer. If there had been spare parts, he would've had to bring them back. If not, then he would've had the pleasure of shooting the man dead on the spot.

Instead, however, he sits at a camp table, reviewing dwindling supplies on a plex that's on the verge of giving out. So much for the profitable trip into the past and back. Wasn't there supposed to be another fracture out here, or something? Where the hell is it, then? Damn Lucas Taylor and his promises...

Katz skids back in, "Rhino sighted on the horizon. Positive identification - it's one of ours."

There's only one out of the compound: "That's Lucas then. He'd better have an answer, or I swear to God I'll blow his head off."

Abandoning the camp table for the first time that day, he saunters outside as the Rhino pulls up in the drill square. It can only be Lucas - there's no other vehicle off-site - but he's got someone with him.

And then that blasted engineer gets out of the passenger side. What was his name again? Wallace, wasn't it? Not that it matters - it's the man who helped to cut them off from from the future, and he is more than pleased to get a chance at payback.

Before he has any chance to speak, however, Lucas emerges, "Don't even think about it, Hooper. You'll get your opportunity - but if you leave him unable to repair the terminus, then I'll shoot you down and give Katz a field promotion."

"And?" Hooper demands, "Are your calculations ready?"

"Ready for testing, yes - but we need the terminus up and running. I suggest a non-damaging form of torture if he turns you down this time. We're fresh out of lab assistants."

Hooper notices the shaken look on Wallace's face as he turns sharply at the casual mention of a murder that clearly still preys on his mind. It helps to ease his bitter need to take the man aside and beat the crap out of him; but he also begins to tick off the various forms of 'persuasion' at his disposal that will comply with Lucas's demands. Anything that would slow down the repair of the terminus has to be off limits. He's struggling to think of something that would suit both Lucas's requirement to get the equipment working, and his requirement to cause Wallace as much pain as possible. And it looks as though _he_ is going to have to be the one to compromise.

Ignoring the men who are discussing his next few days so casually, Malcolm looks about. Surely more soldiers left for the Badlands than this? It's obvious that they are assembling for some purpose - a drill, perhaps? But there are far fewer than he recalls. Certainly, the more that he sees of the encampment the more he realises that the rumours over their impending demise were far from inaccurate. Half of the buildings, such as they are, are either in a state of bad disrepair, or are essentially in ruins and replaced by large, dusty tents. Only the outer perimeter stockade is in anything close to good condition; but then they'd be completely out of their minds to let _that_ deteriorate. The atmosphere in the gathering crowd is demoralised at best, if not actively mutinous - certainly some of the faces look that way. To his mind, they've reached - or even passed - the point beyond which their options are limited to getting through a time fracture, giving up and coming back to grovel to Commander Taylor and enter Terra Nova; or dying.

And then the Commander, Hooper, is standing in front of him with a highly unfriendly expression. The last time they conversed, of course, he'd cast aspersions upon the soldiers for their carelessness over an accident that was anything but. Lucas has almost certainly disabused him of that notion; and he clearly has a few words to say about it.

"You're one of the men who left us trapped here." He says, as though this is news.

"No." Malcolm says, firmly, "I'm one of the men who stopped you and yours destroying our home."

Hooper lets out a bizarre, snarling sound, and grabs a handful of the front of Malcolm's shirt, "God, when that terminus is repaired, you and I are gonna have it out."

"Not if I don't repair the terminus." How he sounds so calm, he has no idea. Given, however, that they're all likely to be dead before the week is out, what has he left to lose?

The soldier's expression is one of barely suppressed rage, and he lashes out, slapping Malcolm violently across the face, "You'll repair that damned terminus!" he hisses, viciously, "If you don't, then you'll find yourself in a _world_ of regret!"

"Enough." Lucas says, sounding very bored, "You can play later, Hooper. Right now, Doctor Wallace has work to do. Bring him." He turns on his heel and stalks off.

* * *

The walk through the buildings shows even more starkly just how desperate things have now become. Despite the pain of his stinging cheek, and slightly watering eyes, Malcolm can't miss the horrible conditions in which the soldiers are now being forced to survive. Everything's grubby - clearly water is now reserved solely for drinking. There isn't enough to shower, or wash clothes, and they're probably reduced to using field latrines. The soldiers are looking less bulky than they did - obviously on short rations; but they look at him as though he is the Second Coming. Has Hooper really lifted their hopes of escape through a portal so high? God, what will happen when they find out that he's only going to be able to take those raised hopes and dash them to bits?

They emerge into another small space, sheltered by a canvas gazebo. Guzman had said after returning from his reconnoitre that he hadn't seen the terminus - and now Malcolm understands why. It's impossible to see from outside the encampment; presumably kept here to shade it on all sides from the unrelenting sun.

As he approaches it, he can see at once that someone's been messing with it. The panel is still off, but there are signs that tools have been used; minor scratches on the motherboard, a few gouges around the fittings for the induction coils that he shorted out. It's probably not sufficient to render any activity impossible, but at least he can start by blaming someone else for his inevitable failure to make progress. Because that's what's going to happen: without a proper workshop, without the ability to fabricate spare parts, there's nothing he can do. Lucas has, effectively, doomed them all.

"Who's been messing about with this?" He demands, going for his best 'angry scientist pissed off at the amateurs' approach.

"What do you mean?" Lucas asks, bending in alongside him to try and share his view of the machine's innards. In fact, such is his curiosity that he's uncomfortably close, and Malcolm has to fight with himself not to step away.

"Look at the mess in there!" he carries on, "Was it you? Did you have someone try to fix this without me? _Now_ look at it! I'm going to have to mend half of this wreckage before I can even _start_ to effect the repairs you need!"

Astonishingly, rather than grow angry, Lucas actually looks contrite, "I'm sorry, I had someone try and work on it when we first arrived here…"

"Well all they've done is make the damage worse!" After the awfulness of the last few days, being able to bawl someone out is rather cathartic, and he's quite enjoying it, "There's no guarantee that any of your calculations will be of any use if I can't get this cowboy work rectified!"

Then Hooper's leaning in behind them, "Don't push your luck, Doctor. There's nothing wrong with it."

"Excuse me?" Malcolm turns, and glares at the man who is calling his bluff, "Are you a degree-level electrical engineer now?"

"Tell you what," Hooper snaps, "Why don't I have you beaten, and we can settle the matter right here and now?"

"And leave me unable even to start the preliminary repairs?"

"Didn't you say 'non-damaging' torture, Mr Taylor?" Hooper turns to address Lucas, who is looking at the pair of them with a speculative air.

"I wouldn't consider a beating to be non-damaging. Commander."

"Fine. Let's try something else." Hooper beckons over one of his men and mutters something in his ear. Nodding, the man summons a companion and the pair leave. They are gone for a few minutes, before returning, lugging between them a fair-sized aluminium trough in which a large quantity of water slops back and forth in time with their staggering. As they set it down, Malcolm frowns, wondering what they intend to do with it.

He gets his answer immediately, as the two men step either side of him and grasp his arms, twisting them awkwardly behind him so that he is obliged to bend, before forcing him to his knees in front of the trough. And then he understands Hooper's intention; but only just in time to snatch a breath before he is compelled downwards, his head disappearing beneath the surface of the water.

It doesn't last long; he is wrenched back up again before his breath runs out, but the shock of the assault is enough, and he stares up at Hooper in genuine fear. The Commander smiles, grimly, and crouches so that they are face to face, "Now, what were you saying about someone else damaging the terminus?"

"I…" he stares helplessly at his interrogator, and lets out a sharp yelp as he is violently dunked again. This time, he is held down for longer, and the sense of his breath faltering drives him to struggle desperately. Immediately, he is pulled back up, coughing violently. Hooper merely smiles, and nods at the men who hold him, and he is forced back down - but this time to the point that his face is mere millimetres from the surface of the water, and he can hear his frightened breaths echoing back up at him.

"I said 'non damaging'." Lucas intervenes, crossly, "if you mistime this…"

"I won't." Hooper insists, "I just want to hear him admit that he's lying about the damage." Then he bends down, so that he is whispering directly into Malcolm's ear, "It goes like this. Ten seconds. Then, if you won't talk, Twelve. Then Fourteen, then Sixteen. Get my drift?"

"And then I get brain damage from hypoxaemia." Malcolm hisses back, the words echoing back up at him, "And you don't get home."

Hooper stands up again sharply, with a vicious growl, "You," he turns to another soldier, "Get that water recycled."

"He's brave, isn't he?" Lucas observes, casually, "Though whether that's real courage, or just bravado, I couldn't tell you right now."

Malcolm stays silent. He isn't entirely sure, either.

"There is, however," Lucas continues, "One remaining alternative - which, I think, might be the clincher. I'm surprised you didn't think of it, in fact." He looks at the two soldiers who still hold Malcolm by his arms, and beckons, "Shall we?"

* * *

Their journey is not long, but it takes them out into an open space towards the far end of the encampment, isolated from the living areas, where a low, square box is set upon a sandy platform of rock. Formerly a packing crate, the aluminium construct has vents around the top, but is otherwise completely enclosed, and can be locked from the outside.

"The soldiers call this 'the box', Malcolm." Lucas advises, as though giving his captive an orientation tour, "There's not one of them who hasn't been in it at least once in the last two years. We have to maintain rather strict rules, you understand."

Malcolm stares at it, nervously. The heat outside is oppressive as it is - his wet shirt is already merely damp, and will soon be dry, while his hair is starting to tuft up again. What kind of hell must exist in there?

"You can guess, I think, what it must be like inside." Lucas continues, "We don't normally leave anyone in there for more than an hour. We once left someone in there for two hours before we realised how effective it is. He was dead, and starting to roast, by the time we got back. That was, admittedly, in the heat of summer, which we're not getting at the moment - but you get my point."

"I can't repair the terminus, Lucas." Malcolm admits, quietly, "With or without any preliminary damage, there are no replacement parts. Unless you've got a workshop where they can be fabricated, then there's nothing I can do."

"There's half a ton of useless electronics lying around this place. Jerry rig it if you have to. If I can create the calculations, then you sure as hell can improvise a repair on the terminus."

"It's not that simple…"

"I'm sure you might redefine the word 'simple' if you spend a bit of time in there, of course." Lucas advises, and nods to the soldiers, who start to force him forward.

"Stop! Stop! I'll try - I…" He knows full well what will happen to him in there. He might not be a medical doctor, but everyone's been trained on how to deal with heat exhaustion and heat stroke; the summer heat is just as oppressive in Terra Nova. His voice is not quite so frantic when he resumes, "…I can't promise anything. But I'll do what I can with whatever you have."

"That's the attitude I was looking for." Lucas beams, a rather unnerving expression on a face that seems mostly to be built for anger or spite, "Shall we?" He nods again, and the two soldiers finally release their grip.

Malcolm stares at the 'box' for a few moments, unable to contemplate the thought of being locked in it. Not just because of the heat - but because of that other aluminium construct…

 _Don't think about it; just don't…_

He can't remember a time when he has felt more helpless, or more lost. For a horrible, lonely moment, he can't believe that Commander Taylor would even want to waste the resources required to get him out of this place. On the verge of tears again, which he forces himself to bite down, Malcolm turns and heads back to the gazebo to begin his impossible task.


	22. Stealth versus Urgency

**A/N:** And, once again, another unremittingly mushy pile of thanks to my readers and reviewers for your reads and reviews. I really didn't imagine that this story would be so well received (paranoid!) and to find that people are not only enjoying it, but _really_ enjoying it, is fantastic. Ridiculously over-large numbers of thank-yous to you all.

And onward we go - into the Badlands. Hold tight!

As always, I own nothing other than that which has escaped rather frantically from the confines of my imagination...

* * *

Chapter Twenty Two

 _Stealth versus Urgency_

As the rover pulls off the grassland and onto the rougher, sandy ground, Mira leans forward, "Pull up."

"What?" Taylor asks, his foot still firmly on the accelerator.

"I said, 'pull up'."

"Why?" Jim demands.

"They have a sensor grid. It's patchy, and you never know whether it's working from one day to the next, or which sector it's monitoring, but it picks up vehicles."

"So what? They'll think it's one of theirs."

"They haven't got any rovers. Only rhinos. If they pick up an approaching rover, they'll know it's a hostile, and Wallace will be dead before we even sight the perimeter."

"They _did_ have rovers." Taylor snaps, crossly, "What happened to them?"

"What do you think? I couldn't ask everyone to walk out of the encampment. It's a five hour drive, so imagine what it would be on foot."

"You stole their rovers." It is not a question, more a weary observation, "Why does that not surprise me?"

"They weren't up to much; there was only one left with power in it by the time we got to the edge of the forest - and that one's cell was on the verge of giving out. We had to walk the rest of the way. Most of them have been cannibalised into our shelters since."

"If that's the case," Jim disputes, "How come they didn't come out and try to take out our recon team?"

"They probably didn't know about them. Even I know how good Guzman is: he would've left a vehicle well back and gone in on foot - and kept his distance when he found them. There's patches of water out there - if you can process it - and as long as you take shelter during the night, you're generally safe from the local predators. Chances are that, if their vehicle _was_ picked up, Hooper would've thought it was one of theirs on patrol anyway. Whatever vehicle Guzman used, if it was before we left, there would've been rovers in the camp as well as rhinos."

"And what are _we_ supposed to do?"

Mira looks at Jim with almost pitying eyes.

"Walk? You want us to walk across a damned _desert_? How the hell are we supposed to do _that_ with the supplies we've got?"

"There's a way in. We devised it almost as soon as we arrived - I wanted a means of getting to the forests and back. There's a sequence of staging shelters from here to an outcrop overlooking the encampment. Hooper's never known about it; it starts outside his patrolling zone. We can follow it and be on his doorstep in three days."

"Three _days_?" Jim stares at her, aghast, "Are you serious?"

"We could do it quicker - but we'd be dead before we were even within five miles of the encampment. It's not flat terrain, most of it's sandy so walking on it's harder, and we'll need to shelter during the bulk of the day to avoid the heat, and most of the night to avoid the predators."

Taylor's anger has, so far, been silent; but his expression has been doing all the talking for him, "So, we can't get to the camp in a vehicle because they'll know a rover's a hostile; walking there is going to take days rather than hours, and you've given the encampment mere days left to live. And you _still_ think there's hope of a deal after this? What the hell chances are there of us getting there and finding Malcolm's still alive?"

Mira glares back, "Given that the reason for all of this is _your_ son: who, if I remember, you didn't have the guts to kill - you left it in the hands of a _girl_ to shoot dead. I'd suggest, if you're looking for someone to hold culpable, go find a mirror. I can only hope that you'll have the guts to kill your precious Lucas _this_ time."

He bares his teeth, and the growl of anger that emerges is such that Mira takes a step back almost instinctively. Grabbing at the hilt of the sword, Taylor wrenches it from its sheath, grasps Mira's arm and holds its deadly edge at her throat, "Believe me," he hisses, his voice low with rage, "I have _no_ intention of letting this go on any longer. If that means taking down my own son, _then that is what I'll do_." The words sink to a deadly whisper.

Despite the feathery sharpness of the blade, Mira shows no fear; but her voice, when she speaks, has lost its disrespectful timbre, "I believe you."

Releasing her arm, Taylor steps back and returns the blade to its sheath, "Get our supplies together. We move out while it's still light. Mira, get us to the first shelter, or you take the watch if we're stranded."

It takes no more than five minutes to gather their weapons and survival gear. Her eyes rather less cold than they were when she first encountered the pair, Mira turns and leads them out into the desert.

* * *

Malcolm burrows through yet another pile of electronics components that have been deposited at his side, and sags in despair. None of it is of any use to him. Sophisticated though much of the equipment brought through from 2149 was, the military paraphernalia is proving to be utterly incompatible with the altogether finer and more delicate materials used to power and operate the terminus. The tools that he has been given are little better - it's as though he is being asked to carve a fragile paperweight with a sledgehammer and a mattock. Put bluntly, he has been sitting in front of the panel for nearly two and a half hours, and he still has no idea where to begin.

Behind him, Lucas paces back and forth impatiently, "What about some circuitry from the sensor net? Would that be suitable?"

He wants to say no; but if he says anything that Lucas does not deem to be positive, he is threatened with an hour in that aluminium crate. With the sun still high, it would be almost beyond endurance in there, and Malcolm is prepared to do whatever he must to avoid being locked up in it.

"Let me work through this lot first, Lucas." He offers, trying to sound as reasonable as he can, "Let's not cripple anything vital if we don't have to."

Rather than complain, Lucas deposits a water bottle on the table beside him, and he gulps at the contents gratefully. It tastes foul, having come from the recycler, but it's clean, and at least his captors realise he's not going to get very far in helping them if he's crazed with thirst.

"How did you find me at the outpost?" He asks Lucas, suddenly. Anything to stop him bloody pacing back and forth, "All I can think of at the moment is sheer serendipity."

To his relief, Lucas takes a seat, leaving him free to continue burrowing through his collection of useless rubbish, "Oh, it wasn't. I've been keeping a watch on the colony for more than a year. I knew I'd need you sooner or later, but with only soldiers coming out of the compound, I couldn't work out how to get at you. You were far too protected inside, so I was waiting for you to leave it; everything hinges on you, of course, so I had to get my hands on you. And then, I saw your rover coming out: I remembered your stupid protesting when we took it during the occupation, and the amount of junk you carry on it is quite distinctive. From your direction, it wasn't hard to work out which outpost you were heading for. I was still a member of the colony when the outposts were being planned, and there was only one out to the east.

"I hiked through to the Outpost in about a day or so - and got there just in time to see Tubby pulling you out of the front door. I suppose I could've stopped him then and there - if I'd been armed; but, given that he had you tied up, I realised he was going to do something nasty and I thought I'd see how it panned out. I must admit," He adds, quite cheerfully, "I was impressed with the amount of work he'd put into the demise he planned for you. Given what you did to me when you blew the terminus, it would've been my ideal type of poetic justice to leave you to see out your last hour or so in a ready-made grave. Hell, if I hadn't needed you alive, I would probably've stepped in and helped him. But then, he was so fixed on what he was doing that it was a simple thing to just grab his sonic rifle and shoot him down. Using that machete thing on him was just for insurance purposes."

Despite what Robert was doing to him, Malcolm can't suppress a violent shudder at the offhand manner in which Lucas describes murdering the man. Taylor's son seems to have absolutely no respect, or reverence, for life in any fashion at all. It may well have been vicious hate that drove Robert to do what he did, but Lucas viewed _his_ act as merely a means to an end, casually killing someone because they were an inconvenient obstacle.

He can't think of anything to say, and he's run out of objects in the crate to examine. Before Lucas can comment, however, Katz - apparently some sort of second in command, by the look of it - approaches, "Mr Taylor, the last of the water condensers has blown. We're down to a single recycler." He sounds calm, but there's no disguising the look of consternation in his eyes. All they have now is recycling the contents of urinals. Filtered urine.

Malcolm looks across at Lucas, wondering if this will prompt him to accept that they're on a hiding to nothing and give the desperately needed order to move out. For a moment, the man is obviously deep in thought, and then he turns, "Can we use any of the circuitry in the terminus?"

"Are you out of your mind?" Malcolm looks at him as though he's gone insane, "How am I supposed to repair the terminus if we're all dying of dehydration, for God's sake? Have you any idea what heat exhaustion's like? I _have_. I volunteered for a digging party once when we were laying the foundations for a new lab building and I overdid it. I had to spend the rest of the day in a darkened room on a drip."

"If the terminus is working," Lucas insists, "It won't matter, will it? Get it working and we can go back to 2149 - and we can have all the water we want. That's the priority - and if we can use the condenser to make it happen, then we do it."

"What kind of priority is that?" Malcolm demands, "You'd condemn everyone in this entire camp just for something that probably won't even happen? I'm more use to you if I repair that damned condenser! Or do you _want_ everyone in this bloody place to be reduced to drinking each other's urine?"

Lucas glares at him, viciously, "The priority is the _terminus_."

"Screw you. I've got more chance of repairing the sodding condensers. At least then we've got more time for me to get it through your thick skull that the terminus is finished!"

* * *

He is crumpled on the floor, a hard, smooth surface that brings him no relief. The walls burn, the air burns and the light that comes in through the vents brings in only more heat with it. Breathing is a torment; hot air finding its way down to his lungs to replace the hot air already present, and that robs him of yet more moisture on its way out. Heat rises - that's why he lies down; but it makes no difference. It is hotter above him, yes, but the air below is hardly any cooler.

He must not move. The more he moves, the warmer he gets. Would it help if he stretched out? Perhaps the heat would leach out of him into the metal floor. But then, that would mean exposing more surface area from which moisture can be leached. Whatever he can think of to ease the misery seems only to have disadvantages.

How long has he been here now? He has no idea; it's impossible to measure the passage of time when each second, and the next, and the next, and the next, serves only to hurt him. Time might as well have slowed down so as to be functionally immeasurable, and he is not entirely sure how long they intend to leave him here.

Swallowing is painful; the bottle of water that he was granted - he can't remember how long ago - reduced to nothing more than that distant memory. His mouth is completely dry, and the thought of water is almost a worse torture than the heat of the air that he breathes.

 _Lucas is insane. He's utterly out of his mind_. Why else would he have demanded that the only person who could save them all from a hideous death by thirst be locked in an aluminium box in the open sun? That it's lower than it was earlier in the day means nothing; the accumulated heat of the day is still present, and shows no sign of dispersing.

Why can't he see that they need a condenser more than they need a terminus? Why? Does he really intend to allow all the soldiers in the camp to die just so he can be proved right? Why can't he just let it go? Why not?

 _Because he doesn't want to, Braveheart._

He looks up, bemused at a nickname he hasn't heard since he was a child. The movement is sharp, and it makes him dizzy. Assuming he's imagining things, he rests his head back down on the floor. His father called him that - long ago and as a joke. He'd been getting ready to attend a Clan dinner, in formal Highland dress, with his favourite Prince Charlie Jacket and the Wallace Green kilt as he hated the formal trews normally worn by the Lowland Clans. He'd let his seven year old son look at his ornamental dirk - though he wasn't taking it; his _sgian dubh_ already tucked into his kilt hose. The sight of his boy waving the ornate dagger about had made him laugh, and he had christened him after that ridiculous film about their famous Clan member, William Wallace. His beloved Da had called him 'Braveheart' right up until the end… _Look after your Mam, Braveheart. I'll be back before you know it_ …

Oh God…he hasn't really thought about his father for as long as he can remember - except in a formal, detached manner that indicates history rather than experience. Why now? Why? Is it because he's at such a low ebb? Maybe he's starting to develop heat stroke, and he'll die soon. Maybe that's why.

Try to sleep. It'll make the time pass more quickly…or perhaps he'll die in his sleep, which is infinitely preferable to dying while awake and knowing what's happening to him. He knows _that_ from experience.

He groans, faintly. The heat is no worse, but it's no better either, and every breath he takes just seems to grow more uncomfortable. He must not think of water… _must not_ …another groan, because now he can think of nothing else.

And then - the most welcome sound in the world; the crunching of approaching footsteps on the gravelly sand. A thump, a clunk, a scrape, and then the front is pulled forward.

"C'mon. Out."

He tries to comply, but his arms and legs are shaking so much that he can't. Forcing himself to concentrate, he starts to issue himself with orders.

 _Left arm. One inch. Right arm. One inch. Now legs. Left. Right._

Slowly, painfully slowly, he begins to crawl as best he can towards the opening. Even outside, there is no relief. Not yet - the sun is going down, yes, but its rays are still brutal, even now.

Impatient, the two men who have come to fetch him reach in and grasp his arms, dragging him out of the aluminium crate in which he has been imprisoned since he insulted Lucas. His legs still refuse to work properly, so the pair heft him up, and lug him back into the camp, to where Hooper and Lucas are engaged in animated conversation.

"You idiot, Lucas!" Hooper snaps, furiously, "What happened to the 'non-damaging torture' stipulation? Look at him!"

"Let him rest up overnight." Lucas ignores the raging Commander, "Find some shade and give him one cup of water. No more." He gets up and approaches them, "I don't take kindly to my work being disparaged, Malcolm. Just bear that in mind in future."

He is dragged into a tent, and dropped unceremoniously upon the floor. In the dimness, he can make out a single enamelled mug that contains his entire portion of water for the coming night. Despite his thirst, he does not dare to touch it, knowing full well that, if he does, he will be unable to stop himself from draining it - and then what will he drink for the next ten hours or so?

The temperature is dropping, at least, so the air that he breathes is cooler now. As long as he stays completely still, and allows the heat to leave him, the water can wait.

 _Taylor's coming for me. I know he is. He wouldn't abandon me here - he wouldn't…even if not for me, then for Max…_

Why the hell did he let himself think that? Already he can feel the first sob forming. He can't cry. He can't afford to lose the moisture.

But he misses her. So much it hurts. If he sleeps now, then all he wants is to wake in the morning and find himself in the infirmary, seeing her face as she looks into his; her hand grasping his…safe…home…

Moaning softly in his misery, he draws his legs up and tries to shut out the thought in sleep.

* * *

Jim has lost any sense of the passage of time. While the air is not too hot now, tramping over sand that yields under his every step is far more tiring than he remembers, and his calf muscles are strained and complaining. Besides, the light's fading, and what was it that Mira was saying about finding shelter? But then, now that he thinks about it, he remembers Guzman talking about shelters built by the Sixers - having found one or two.

"Where's this shelter you promised, Mira?" He asks, still tramping along.

"Do you really think we'd make them that obvious?" She answers, sounding utterly untroubled by the exertion, "It's just up ahead. We'll need to stop: there's so little cover out here that the predators tend to be nocturnal - more chance of catching stuff if you can see in the dark better than your prey can."

The shelter, when they reach it, is so well hidden that Jim knows they would've missed it entirely. Slightly away from the path that she's following, Mira recognises it from an incongruously planted desert shrub that seethes with vicious thorns. Seeing it, he suddenly remembers that there's been one such shrub at regular intervals all along their route - their nasty defences having captured his interest, though not their placement. They don't look out of place, not to an inexpert eye; but to a Sixer, it would be a signal as plain as day, both of the path they need to take, and the location of the shelters. And he's taken absolutely zero account of every single one. Damn, she's smart: no wonder Guzman found so few - and had to speculate about the existence of the rest.

Setting aside some dry grasses, Mira lifts a cover and indicates the hole it reveals, "Down there. Believe me, you don't want to be caught above ground by a Bambiraptor - it's bigger and faster than you are, and a sonic pistol's no better than pop-gun against one. If you need to answer a call of nature, do it on the other side of that rise. There's no room for a latrine in the shelters, and Bambiraptors are attracted to the smell of human waste."

It's a short drop, and one that won't leave them unable to climb out again. The shelter itself seems to have been carved out of the rock, a rather soft sandstone, and contains rough hewn sleeping platforms, and a storage bay that holds a selection of ration packs, a large canister that proves to be filled with water and a bottle of iodine. Without hesitation, Mira empties a portion of the water into a smaller pot, and adds a stream of the iodine, "This'll make it taste filthy, but better than it actually _being_ filthy. I don't want either of you two having to make an emergency exit overnight."

"How is it that this canister's still got water in it?" Taylor asks.

"These aren't used all the time; we used to keep the stocks up in passing when we were out hunting. I didn't see things panning out any differently from this, and I wanted to hedge my bets - so we built these along the shortest route out from the encampment. Hooper didn't have a clue what we were doing."

"I bet you didn't expect to be using them to go back in, rather than get out." Jim observes, as she breaks out some rations.

She shrugs, hands out the ration packs, and checks her watch.

"I think we'll supplement our stocks with this when we move on." Taylor says, "If what you say about the camp is true, then it might be worth being prepared. At the worst, it'll give us something to bargain with."

"Won't we need it on the way back out?" Jim asks.

"I'm not banking on walking out. We'll take one of their rhinos."

After several checks of her watch, Mira finally pours out the portion of water. As she promised, it tastes absolutely foul, but at least anything that might've given their stomachs trouble has been killed by the iodine. A rudimentary means of purification, yes, but time-honoured for its efficacy.

"I don't know what it'll be like there now," she says, after a while, "Hooper's lost a lot of the men to disease, bad decisions like sending patrols out at night and his punishment cell."

"Punishment cell?" Taylor asks, looking up from his rations, mildly perturbed.

"He had an aluminum crate put in an unsheltered part of the back of the encampment. Anyone who breaks rules enough times gets locked in it for up to an hour at a time in the middle of the day when the sun's hottest. I made it clear that if he tried it with any of my people, he'd go to bed one night and never wake up again. After that, only his men got put in it - in the summer, some of them didn't survive it. Not even a single hour. They forgot one man on one occasion: by the time they went back, he wasn't just dead, he was starting to cook."

"Would they put Malcolm in it?" Jim asks, worriedly.

"Not unless Lucas is entirely out of his mind. Even after an hour, anyone who comes out of there can't move for at least a day. If he wants that terminus repaired, he's going to need Wallace fully functioning." She drains the last of her water, grimacing at the taste, "I suggest you get some sleep. We'll be moving again in six hours."

* * *

Malcolm opens his eyes and groans faintly. His head is aching fiercely, as are his limbs. He has no idea what the time is, but it seems from the quiet, and the dark, that it must still be night outside. His mouth is still dry, but the cup of water still awaits his attention, and with luck there may be less time to wait for a top up if he drains it now. A single cup won't be anything close to enough - but it's all he has, so he'll just have to make the best of it.

It's lukewarm, and tastes foul - but at least it's something. The relief lasts perhaps five minutes as his dehydrated body greedily snatches at every molecule, and then he is horribly thirsty again. Slowly he rises onto his hands and knees, and crawls to the tent flap to look out.

The sky is starting to grow vaguely pale; the first hints of the new day dimming the stars just a little. As long as it's not the false dawn, of course. Now that the heat of the day has been given back to the atmosphere, the air is shockingly cold - but after yesterday's agony in the crate, he almost bathes in that chill; revels in it. Each breath seems soothing after the hot air that tormented him in that enclosed space, and he closes his eyes to enjoy it. With matters as dire as they are, he must find enjoyment in anything that he can, otherwise he may well lose the will to keep going; and he can't do that if he's going to survive long enough for Taylor to find him and take him home.

He pushes the flaps aside and sits quietly in the opening. There's absolutely no point in trying to run - where would he go? Instead he continues to allow the cold air to drift around him. His core body temperature has recovered, certainly, but there's still the problem of dehydration. Maybe he should go in search of the dead condenser and see if he can find a way to repair it.

No. While Hooper might appreciate it, Lucas would just see it as another insult. No matter what he does, unless it's related to the stupid terminus, he'll just be punished for doing it. The man is singleminded unto death. And not just his death - that of everyone around him. Just so he can win. Why doesn't he realise that it's not about winning now? It's about surviving and prospering as a community. If Lucas would just allow him to give some time to their survival, then it might be possible to make some progress - though he's not fool enough to think that he can repair that terminus. The only way to do it is to take it back to the colony. He might as well suggest trying to send it to the moon.

Someone emerges from one of the tents nearby, and walks away through the dusty buildings. Bemused, Malcolm watches until he's lost to sight. Going to visit the latrines perhaps? The man was hardly in full combats, after all. Shrugging to himself, he resumes his quiet contemplation.

Then someone's standing in front of him, and he looks up, "Didn't try to run then?" Lucas asks.

"Where would I go?" Malcolm asks, "I'm not _that_ desperate to get away from here."

"Ah yes." Lucas smiles, "Because my dear father's coming to get you."

"Not necessarily. I'm just not sure I could find something out there that would kill me faster than dehydration."

"Talking of which," Lucas adds, fetching out a canteen, "Time for your next cup of water."

"So basically, you want me to be unable to repair anything because I've got no manual dexterity?"

Lucas shrugs, "Everyone's on one cup of water every two hours; the recycler can't cope with anything more than that."

"And what about the condenser?"

"The circuitry is out and awaiting your inspection under the gazebo."

Malcolm stares at Lucas, his eyes widening, "You've removed the circuitry from the water condenser?"

"Of course. It's blown, so what use it is now? Once the terminus is running, it won't matter any more anyway."

"Lucas - how many more times? It's not going to work! If it had, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we? You would've gone back and changed the outcome of the occupation! Doesn't the fact that you clearly _haven't_ done that mean anything to you? I know I can't possibly match you as a physicist - it's not a field I ever had time to get into - but even _I_ know that time moves forward equally for the points at either end of the fracture. All they do is link one location in time and space with another. There's no way to make the fracture at this end connect with the other at a point when it previously opened. All we can do is predict the openings and tether them."

"Don't push it, Malcolm. I worked out how to make them go both ways; do you think I can't work out how to force the next available fracture to connect with the one that opened in 2149?"

"And you know for certain that it'll open in the same place as the one that we used to use near the colony? I get that there's one that opens in and around here - but where the hell does it even _go_?"

Lucas crouches and glares directly into his face, "It'll go where I tell it to go. I just need you to repair the terminus. If you want any more water, then you get started on it."

Malcolm sighs. He tried - but he has no choice. He must continue to fail to repair that damned terminus, or die horribly from dehydration.

By midmorning, the sun is high again, and the lack of water is starting to take its toll. The circuitry from the condenser was, as Malcolm surmised, wholly unsuitable to be used to repair the terminus. He has no means of doing a single bloody thing with it, but still he must continue, Sisyphus-like, to engage in an impossible act for a task-master who refuses to see that it cannot be done. He has dropped his laser scalpel for the third time, and he can't see properly. Behind him, Katz is back, "We've lost another man." He says, not as quietly as he thinks, "He walked out into the desert this morning. Hooper's demanding another inspection."

"Of what?" Lucas grouches, "Does he think that making them straighten their epaulettes is going to make this terminus work sooner?"

Katz has no opportunity to reply before the blast of a sonic pistol makes them all jump.

"Now what?" Lucas demands, and Katz hurries away. He is not gone long, "It's Jacobs. He shot himself in his tent."

Keeping his gaze on the terminus, Malcolm sighs. _And so it begins_.

Their only hope of fresh water is now utterly beyond repair, and the recycler is in such a parlous state that they can't risk pushing it too hard, or that'll blow, too. And then what? No wonder the soldiers are starting to look for a quicker way out.

"Well?" Lucas is now standing over him.

"Well what?"

"How's it coming? Time's ticking."

"It can bloody well tick all it wants. I can't replace anything without suitable parts; of which there are none whatsoever." He turns, "Lucas - there's still time. The vehicles are still working, aren't they? For their sake, if not your own, send them back to the Colony. It may not be 2149, but at least they can make a life there. Terra Nova's all about second chances - why deny them that? I can't repair the terminus - not without going back to get replacement parts, and even then it's not likely that I'll be able to make the thing work again. All you're doing is condemning us all to death, and for what?"

Lucas turns, "Katz!"

For a moment, Malcolm really believes it - that Lucas has seen sense. He is, however, wrong.

"Put him back in the box."

"Lucas - no, don't do it; I can't repair anything if you leave me in there for an hour. I couldn't function after the last time. There's no point! Lucas!"

Lucas ignores him. His expression rather discontented, Katz grasps his arm, "You heard him."

" _Lucas!_ Don't do this! I can't go back in that box! What's wrong with you? If you think that the terminus can be repaired, then why the hell have me put back in that bloody crate?"

"To make it clear to you that I will not tolerate disobedience. This is your fault, Malcolm. Not mine."

He still calls back over his shoulder as Katz frogmarches him away. The sun is almost at its zenith as they emerge into the open space where the crate is set, and Malcolm stares at it in absolute horror, "Don't. Please - don't…"

"No choice. I'll be back when Lucas sends me." Katz pulls down the front, "In."

Malcolm shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear.

"Get in." Katz draws his pistol, "Or die. Isn't someone supposed to be coming for you? Shame if they find your roasting corpse."

With no alternative, Malcolm complies, and groans faintly as the door is locked behind him.

* * *

Now that he knows what to look for, Jim finds the trail an easier prospect. His only frustration is the regularity with which they need to hide. In the day, it's from the murderous sun. In the dark, it's from murderous predators. They've been at this for two days now.

At least they still have good stocks of water. Very good, in fact, as they raid each outpost of every drop they can carry. Conversation, on the other hand, is sparse. There is little that they can talk about. Instead, he occupies himself with thoughts about how they can accommodate the remaining Sixers back into the colony. Taylor may not want to contemplate the idea, but it's going to happen, so he might as well plan for it.

"Mira." He says, as she seems completely shut off from them - ignoring their presence unless she is required to acknowledge it.

"Shannon." She answers, shortly. Not exactly a dismissal, but not an invitation either.

"I'm going to need a staff manifest from you."

"A staff manifest?" she looks at him, cynically.

"Yeah. I want to know what your people can offer so that I know who to have in my team, and who can go into others. That 'metalworker', as you called her, runs our newest department. She's not some random woman - and she could use people who can work metal or wood. You said you could offer us skills - it'd be helpful to know where we can deploy them so everyone reintegrates better."

Her expression changes, as she realises he's quite serious. Behind her, Taylor grimaces, but says nothing. Rather than answer immediately, she turns and breaks away from the trail.

"Where are you going?" Taylor asks, at once, "It's not that hot yet."

"Too hot for us to get to the next shelter." Mira counters, "We wait until late afternoon before we continue. Shannon, I'll consider your request."

* * *

Taylor sits quietly as both Shannon and Mira grab some sleep. Out of the sun, it's not too hot in the shelter - and he knows that to continue now would probably end in their inglorious deaths. Nonetheless, he chafes at the delay. One of his people is in danger, and needs his help - and he's sitting in a cave while his companions rest.

Drawing the sword, he examines it. He hasn't done so for a long time - not since he first received it. The edge is deadly sharp, the metal decorated with a weaving pattern of iridescence imparted through long folding and hammering as Yseult worked through her grief and pain by making something beautiful. Not again. He is not going to let her suffer again - he lost Niall. He is not, dammit, _not_ going lose Malcolm. Besides, apart from breaking her heart, it would leave the Colony far poorer. Sure, Malcolm's a pain in the ass at times - but he's bright, capable and much less inflexible than he used to be when he first arrived - even more so since he took up with Yseult.

Damn him. Damn that wretched son of his - every time he thinks that everything is safe and secure, Lucas seems to rise again like some sort of revenant and try to smash it to pieces. How can he continue to love a son who is so bent on destroying everything good that his father has built? And yet, he does…

 _Forgive me, Ayani. He's dishonoured your memory in every way possible - and yet I can't give up. Could you? Any more than I can't?_

As with Wash, there's no reply. There never is.

Sighing, he returns the sword to the sheath. One more day and they'll be able to see the encampment, and he can bring this whole business to an end. Once and for all.


	23. Breakdown

Chapter Twenty Three

 _Breakdown_

"Where the hell is Hooper?" Lucas's voice demands loudly in the early morning light. Raising his head from the floor of the tent into which he was dragged again yesterday after his second stint in the punishment box, Malcolm tries to focus, and largely fails. He can't remember the last time he drank something, and the ache in his muscles is becoming almost impossible to endure. In some ways, he has lost any sense of connection with who he was before he found himself here, and can picture the colony, and those who live in it, with something approaching detached indifference.

 _Taylor's coming_. He keeps on saying that to himself, but he can't really remember now who 'Taylor' is, or why he would come anyway. There's nothing here to come _for_.

 _Don't give up, Braveheart_.

There it is again - his father's voice. But isn't his father dead? As far as he can remember, he was orphaned before he even left England, so why is he here now?

"You're not real." His voice is ghastly, his dry mouth changing the timbre and thickening the words, "You're just an hallucination."

Silence. He's not sure whether he's pleased or disappointed.

"Where's Hooper?" Lucas's voice again, sounding not that different in tone - he's as dehydrated as anyone else. But then, from what Malcolm can remember of last night, Hooper cracked up. The last of the rations got doled out, and he kept on going through the inventory over and over again, as though that would make a difference. He was demanding that people dig up the latrines and recycle what they found there…

"There's no sign of him anywhere." Katz's voice comes through - sounding equally bad, "I think he must've wandered out into the desert."

"Oh, great. How many do we have left?"

He was still in the box when it happened, but he heard people talking about it - or at least he thinks he remembers doing so - two men were murdered by colleagues last night because they decided, for reasons of their own, that the victims had full water canteens that they were keeping for themselves. How quickly order breaks down when essential supplies run out…

"I'll do a roll call."

The tent flaps are pulled back, and Lucas peers in, "You're still here, then. Glad someone is." He enters the tent and places another cup of water beside Malcolm, "Drink that. And bear in mind that, until I see some worthwhile progress on the terminus today, that's all you'll be getting."

The cup is half full, and it is drained in two swallows. Lucas ignores Malcolm's rather frantic attempts to shake out every possible last drop from it. They must be running out by now. After all, given that very few people are going to be able to get rid of much fluid from their bladders, the amount of water to recycle can only continue to dwindle. It's all being lost as sweat evaporates away from people's bodies - as they breathe it out in their breath. If they last another two days, then even _that'll_ be a miracle. The fact that the rations are gone is meaningless. It's water that they need - and water that they lack. If he sees tomorrow's dawn, then he might well revise his decision to stay within the perimeter. Finding a predator to end it more quickly might well be the better option.

"Get to it." Lucas jerks his thumb towards the tent flaps, irritably, "If there's progress, you get water."

It takes every ounce of will he has to force his limbs to move. If he can barely even get up, then how the hell is he going to have even a hope of working on that blasted terminus? God, if he never sees it again, he'll be the happiest man alive.

He is sure he can see lights flickering at the edge of his vision as he sits down in front of the access panel yet again. He hasn't managed anything more than to mend the minor damage that Lucas inflicted upon the circuitry - that's quite literally all that he can do. Even if he could think more lucidly, there's nothing here that he can convert, rebuild or break apart to raid for components; and the lack of dexterity thanks to his dehydration would make it impossible for him to fit them unless they were more or less the size of a house-brick.

The laser scalpel drops from his fingers again, and he groans as he bends to pick it up. This is pointless…

 _Don't give up, Braveheart. When have you ever given up on anything in your life?_

"You're not here." He says quietly, not looking up, "I'm just imagining you."

 _Perhaps. Do you want me to be here?_

"I don't know. I haven't thought about you much more than I had to since I was a child."

 _Why?_

"Because it hurt too much. You were dead - the last time I saw you, you told me you'd be back. I never saw you again, and my life broke apart."

 _But you put it back together again - and you overcame it._

"I can't overcome this. I'm losing my mind to dehydration and heat exhaustion, and imagining a conversation with my dead father; and tomorrow I'll probably be dead too, so what does it matter anyway?"

He retrieves the laser scalpel and tries to focus on the circuitry yet again. His hand is trembling as he lifts it, the muscles of his arms burning and aching. This is hopeless…

"I can't do this." He whispers, miserably, "I haven't got anything to replace the damaged parts, and the tools aren't right for the job. Why am I even trying?"

 _Because Lucas will punish you if you don't?_

"Leave me alone." He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry, and instead he lets out a faint moan. His mind is starting to go - it must be if he keeps on talking to someone that isn't even there. He needs to have something he can show Lucas - something that at least looks like progress - and then maybe he'll get some water. Not that it'll be enough - but any amount is better than none.

"Where are you, Taylor?" Why didn't he take the opportunity to run when it was there? Why did he sit still and just wait for Lucas to check the interior of the rhino? He told himself that it wasn't worth the risk - that he couldn't have got more than a mile, if that…and now he's out here in the middle of a massive desert, dying of thirst. Such excellent life choices; Taylor would be _so_ proud of his survival instincts - and the man regards him with barely concealed scorn as it is. No one in that bloody colony gives a damn about his safety or wellbeing. Why bother wasting resources to go in search of a man that nobody really likes anyway? That was why he kept silent about his burns - and he wishes he hadn't mentioned it to Jim Shannon. Admittedly the man hasn't spread it about…

He pauses. Isn't there someone else he told about that? Someone who _does_ care about him? The only other people who really cared about him are all dead - his mother, his father…the best friend he had at Harrow…caring about him seems to just leave people dead. Perhaps it's best if he just gives up, then. No one else need to suffer because of him.

 _Oh, for goodness' sake Braveheart, you're better than this. Enough of the self pity! This is the lack of water talking._

Great. Now even his hallucination is telling him off. He'd cry - but he can't risk losing the moisture.

And then he remembers…Yseult, _Max_ …the woman who loves him; the woman he loves. And he never thought he really would - even his feelings for Elisabeth couldn't come close to how he feels about her - and he'd forgotten her! How could he do that? She'll be counting on his coming back - she lost her husband when he went OTG, and, when he said goodbye to her, he promised, _promised_ , that he would come back. Taylor will be coming for him. He knows that he will - and he needs to be still alive when the Commander gets here.

"Damn you," he berates himself, "if you can't survive for yourself, then do it for her, you idiot - for _her_!" Angry now instead of miserable, he retrieves the tools and tries again. It may be pointless, but if he can at least show some progress, then there'll be a cup of water for him, and he can try and work out what to do next once he's got at least some more water on board.

 _That's better._

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

Lucas reviews his work. It's not much; but he's found something that will do to recreate the connectors that were blown with the induction coils, and the cannibalised springs from some abandoned machinery nearby look sufficiently like replacements for Lucas to think that they'll do. They won't - but as long as Lucas thinks so, he'll permit Malcolm to have something to drink.

Following Lucas out of that gazebo is probably the hardest thing he's done all day. His legs are stiff and aching, whether he moves or stays still, and his head is pounding. There are no rations left anymore, and the remaining soldiers look mutinous, hungry and thirsty. Katz has gained himself a field promotion - as Hooper hasn't been seen since last night. The now-accepted consensus being that he must've wandered out of the camp overnight after he cracked up yesterday evening.

There was another suicide a few hours ago, or so the whispers that he can pick up mention. They're down to ten soldiers now, out of how many? Eighty? One hundred? God above, Lucas has led these men to their deaths - and now the last are facing the cruellest end that anyone could stand to endure.

The tent in which they have gathered was meant for a far larger number of people than it now holds, and the small group gathers around a table upon which sit fourteen water bottles - each numbered - that hold probably no more than half a litre each, "Is that it?" Malcolm asks, after a long pause.

Lucas frowns at him, but does not deny it. Seven litres of water left - and there are twelve people there. The ten solders, Lucas and him.

"My calculations are complete. All I need now is for you to finish repairing the terminus. Once that's done, the water problem will be over - we'll all be back in 2149 and there'll be all the water we could ever wish to drink." He smiles, magnanimously, "The first round'll be on me."

"My God…" Malcolm can't help himself, "You really _are_ insane…"

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. Lucas is glaring at him with venom, and he is quite convinced that his insult has cost him the cup of water he was banking on. He shuts his mouth, and waits as Nathaniel Taylor's mad son opens the first bottle, fills a metal cup, and hands it over to one of the soldiers.

As soon as each soldier has emptied the cup, he hands it back to Lucas, and moves away. No one is permitted a second cupful, it seems, and he is quite keen to make sure no one tries to sneak one. Discipline is obviously quite precarious enough as it is, without creating the conditions for a fight.

By the time each soldier has had their cupful, there are two bottles left. Calmly, Lucas empties the last dregs of the twelfth, followed by some of the thirteenth, into a cup for himself, which he drains. Then he turns to look at Malcolm, who eyes him with desperation. He needs that water… _needs_ it. He's been banking on getting it all day…

"Lucas…" he is almost in tears, "Please…"

Slowly, Lucas pours out the remaining water in the bottle, "I'm still wondering whether or not to give you this." He advises, coldly, "I could, of course, make you beg for it. On your knees. Would you do that?" He eyes Malcolm for a moment, "Actually you would, wouldn't you? You're that desperate."

Then he smiles, and starts to tip the cup, "Lucas!" Malcolm's voice rises in near-panic, " _Please_ , let me have that water! Please! I can't finish the terminus if you don't let me have it! _Please_!"

"You want me to let you have it?" Lucas smiles, nastily.

Unable to speak, Malcolm nods.

"Fair enough. Have it." Rather than hand over the cup, Lucas flings the contents in Malcolm's face.

He doesn't care about how humiliating it might look, or how ghastly it might appear. Frantically, he cups his hands over the remains that drip from his cheeks, and tries to get them into his mouth - he'll even suck it from his shirt if he must…

Everyone is startled by a sudden, loud scream; but it's not Malcolm - it's one of the soldiers. Without any warning, the man turns and lunges at his neighbour, "Where is it? You've got a whole canteen of water! I saw you with it! Where've you hidden it?"

"I haven't got anything, you crazy bastard! Get your hands off me!"

And then the pair are brawling like madmen, the soldiers around them becoming almost equally suspicious of one another - has someone been concealing water? If so, who? Where?

"Stand down!" Katz is bawling, furiously, "I said, STAND DOWN!"

Then the two men crash over the table, sending the bottles flying in all directions. Everyone is trying to prise the two men apart, and no one notices the one remaining full bottle as it rolls to a halt at Malcolm's feet. Not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and too desperate to care if anyone sees, he snatches it up, wrenches the stopper off, and gulps down the very last remains of the camp's water supply. That's it. From now on, they're all dead men…

 _If I get out of this alive…I swear to God I'm going to ask Max to marry me_ … _Taylor's coming. He won't give up on me…I know he won't. If not for my sake, then for hers. He lost her husband. He won't lose me…_

He quickly throws the bottle into the midst of the tumbled mess, all about him oblivious to his act. Then, finally, Katz manages to pull the two combatants apart, hurling abuse in all directions. He is no leader - even in the best of circumstances; but then, would Hooper have managed any better?

By the time everyone is under control, and the table is righted, everything has gone horribly silent. His eyes angry, Katz starts to assemble the bottles back on the table. The last one - bottle fourteen - is beside the boots of one of the soldiers who was watching the contretemps. As Katz reaches for it, and finds it to be empty, he grabs the unfortunate man who has done nothing more than stand beside it, "You've emptied this, Soldier!"

"Sir?"

Katz says nothing. His eyes crazed, as he also loses his grip on his nerve, he snatches his pistol out of its holster, and shoots the man dead on the spot. Turning to the assembled men, who stare at him in silent horror, he points the weapon at each one in turn, his eyes unnervingly wide, "Any questions?"

Silence.

"Good. Fall out."

Their expressions varying from fearful to sullen, the eight remaining members of the Phoenix Battalion turn and disperse, their commander following in their wake.

Watching them go, Lucas turns to Malcolm, who is still standing in frozen horror, staring at the water bottle that he drained, that led to an unwarranted murder.

"Come on, Malcolm. Time to get back to the terminus. Don't you agree?"

* * *

Eleven people: that's all that remain of the troops that went into the Badlands. Staring at the hated terminus once again, Malcolm tries to find it in himself to continue. The half litre of water helped, certainly, but it wasn't anything like enough, and he can't get the sight of the blameless man being shot in retribution for his theft out of his head.

 _Don't give up, Braveheart_.

"Oh God, not you again. You're just an hallucination. Leave me alone."

Lucas appears at the edge of the gazebo, "Who the hell are you talking to?"

"No one."

His expression vicious, Lucas grabs Malcolm's arm and glares at him, "That's the last of the water gone. We have six hours at most left to live - including you. You _will_ repair the terminus. I will be back in one hour: if there is no progress, I shall have you pegged out on the sand in the sun for a reciprocal hour. Then you will be brought back in again to continue working. If there is no further progress in _that_ hour, you will be returned to the sand for another hour. That will continue until you repair this damned machine. Do you understand?"

Malcolm stares at him, partly because he is starting to see double, but also because the sun is setting, "You can try - but what's the point if there's no sun?" he asks, his words slightly slurred. For a moment, he wonders if there was alcohol in that water he drank.

Lucas utters a wordless snarl of frustration and stalks away.

 _Nicely done, Braveheart_.

"Stop calling me that. You lost the right to call me anything when you broke your word." He fumbles with the tools and tries to raise them to the interface. Except he can't quite work out whether his hands are in the right place - his hand-eye coordination seems to be going.

 _How did I break my word?_

"You told me you'd be back. I never saw you again. Didn't I tell you that this morning? Or was it yesterday? I can't even keep track of my conversations with my own imagination anymore."

 _I told you only what I thought to be true. You thought the same - just a few questions. I wasn't to know what questions they were, or that my answers meant nothing. They just wanted names; more people to indict. All they had were rumours of past associations that were of no consequence, and which I'd long since abandoned, but that was all they needed._

"I lost everything. _Everything._ Have you even the first idea how that feels to a child? I was only ten! You were my _world_ \- and then you were gone! Fathers aren't supposed to do that! You were supposed to be there for me until I'd grown up - and I had to do that on my own!"

 _And it wasn't worth it? What about your life here? What about your girl? Would you have found her if things hadn't happened the way that they did? You overcame your loss and prospered, didn't you? Living in a pristine world, with clean air and a hopeful future? You could make us grandparents…_

"Stop that!" He looks about, unsteadily, "Fat lot of good it is giving me a pep talk _now_! I'll be dead before the end of today, and there's no sign of anyone coming to rescue me. So stop filling my head with dreams that I can't make a reality! How the hell can I have children with Max when I'm not alive to father them?"

He's dropped the tools again, but when he tries to reach them, his balance fails and he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

"I can't do it any more, Da," he whimpers, miserably, "I can't keep going. I just want this all to stop…"

 _Don't be afraid, Braveheart. Whatever happens, I'm with you. Hold on to that. Hold on to the love of your parents - even if we're not there anymore. We still love you…_

And then he is still.

* * *

Flattened out on a low escarpment, Taylor looks down with his vision enhancers, "Is it me, or are there no sentries on the perimeter?"

"I said they were finished." Mira murmurs, quietly, "They lost a whole platoon's worth to disease from tick bites a year ago until they realised that they needed stop rolling their damn trousers up, not to mention sending patrols out too far at night. If they've run out of water, then the words 'death throes' might not be too far from the truth."

While they aren't particularly close, the stillness of the night is more than enough to help the sounds from the camp carry up to their ears, and the sound of a violent argument is impossible to miss.

"That doesn't sound good." Jim observes, "Sounds like discipline's gone to hell."

They continue to listen as the shouting dies down, only to all jump in shock at the sound of a pistol shot.

"Yeah." Taylor mutters, "Discipline's gone to hell." He turns to Mira, "Where's the terminus?"

She points in the failing light, "Down under that large canvas awning. They kept it there to try and keep the sand away from it, and the sun off it. Lucas tried to get one of the soldiers to look at it - he was a bit of an amateur electronics enthusiast - but it didn't help."

They continue to watch as people emerge from a large assembly marquee. Taylor counts, "Christ, Shannon - there's nine of 'em. No sign of Malcolm or Lucas, but unless the others have gone another way, we've only got nine people to deal with."

Jim stares at him, aghast, "There must've been ten times that many when they went north…"

"It's a hostile environment." Mira mutters, without sympathy, "They had no idea what they were coming into. Once they lost us, they lost the only people who know how to survive here without relying on high-tech. Hooper must've lost half his troops in the first year, because he didn't know what he was doing, and wouldn't ask the people who did."

"This is going to be easier than I thought."

"Unless that shot was Lucas killing Wallace." Mira says, almost spitefully, "Are you still regretting having Skye try to do your killing for you?"

"He wouldn't. Not while he thinks that terminus is still useable." Jim counters.

"And if he's finally realised it isn't?"

"Stop that. The pair of you." Taylor growls, "The only way we'll know for sure whether Malcolm's still alive is if we go down there and find him. Given that they're down to nine soldiers, as far as we can count, getting to him isn't going to be as hard as I thought. As soon as night's fallen, we split up and go in. Take the soldiers down one by one - _silently_ \- and then sweep the camp to find Malcolm and Lucas - in _that_ order: Malcolm is the priority. Make sure you have water in case he needs it. Any questions?"

Silence.

"Good. Be ready to move out."


	24. Confrontation

**A/N** : Apologies to any Scots readers for the slight outbreak of cliché in the following chapter...

* * *

Chapter Twenty Four

 _Confrontation_

Lucas wanders through the camp, ignoring every possible sign of the appalling failure of his leadership. Not even his burning thirst seems to penetrate the veneer of assured self-belief that the terminus is mere minutes away from being ready to fire up - and he will be back in 2149 before dawn. The fact that he no longer has any means of predicting when the next facture will open makes no more impact upon his optimism than the ghastly disaster that has unfolded around him.

With his memories of all that took place following their cruel act in sending through an innocent man encased in a bomb, he already knows what he needs to do. Make sure that Shannon is dead _before_ he has a chance to recover his senses and begin fomenting a resistance; if they can't avoid the Carno damaging the terminus, then take hostages and make it clear that one will die every fifteen minutes unless Malcolm puts his best efforts into repairing the terminus. Much as he doesn't wish to, as - if he is honest with himself - he finds her very attractive, Bucket must be shot down before she has even the first opportunity to use his feelings against him. Then - oh, yes, _then -_ everything will be ready before his damn father can interfere. If he isn't ready to fight back, then so much the better. He can sit helplessly in the forest and watch as his precious colony is massacred, ending with his _darling_ Alicia. He is nothing if not generous, however: Hooper can find some suitably unpleasant way to torture Wallace to death.

Making his way under the gazebo, he pauses, and frowns; what the hell is Wallace doing on the floor? No sleeping on the job, dammit! If he had any water, he would dump it over the lazy scientist's head; but, as he doesn't, he settles instead for kicking him in the back, "Wake up! Who said you could rest?"

It does not seem to register with him that Malcolm does not respond.

* * *

Their approach is almost silent, though Jim and Taylor seem to be utterly unable to match Mira in terms of stealth. Her eyes are intent, her movements slow and measured. Every footstep makes not so much as a sound, while their boots seem to crunch on the crumbly ground at the approximate volume of a rock concert. How the hell does she do it?

As they approach the perimeter, Taylor crouches and issues his orders. Whether or not Mira's going to obey them is debatable, but at least she consents, silently, to make her way off to the right, while Jim heads off to the left.

With so few soldiers apparently left in the camp, they have no sentries to spot them, and entering past the stockades is surprisingly easy, as they are entirely unmanned. God alone knows how it is that they've not had any incursions from the local predators if there's no one to scare them off with weapons fire or flares. Maybe they have - it's impossible to know.

Making his way slowly, and as quietly as he can, through the remains of abandoned and collapsing structures, Jim's eyes flit here and there, taking advantage of the starlight. The moon is low, and offers little in the way of illumination, but the darkness of the camp itself is sufficient for the slight glimmer from above to show him the way. Where the hell is everybody? Are they really all asleep?

It's as though he's given someone a cue. The sound of crunching footsteps drives him immediately into the limited shade of a shed, and he watches as a soldier makes his rather dizzy and confused way across his path. The man ought to have seen him, surely? But he seems dazed - and then Jim understands: the water's run out.

For a moment, the soldier appears not to know where he is going, or why; but then makes his doddering way across to a run of piping that leads to a water carrier; presumably an improvised collection system for the only remaining fluid available to everyone. Jim averts his eyes as the man fumbles with his fly, and deposits probably no more than a few drops, if that, of urine into the plastic urinal. It won't even make it to the collection receptacle. It seems that they've arrived not a moment too soon.

Moving carefully, Jim approaches the soldier as he fumbles with his fly again, and swiftly incapacitates him with a chokehold. There is little fight in him, and the entire manoeuvre is over in seconds. Leaving the man in the shelter of a nearby tent, Jim proceeds.

Elsewhere in the complex, Taylor moves with equal care. And freezes at the sound of voices.

"Why are we bothering?" the voice sounds thick and dry-mouthed, "Might as well put pistols in our mouths and end it now. The only thing out there is a long walk, or one of those damned Bambis."

"Not if Lucas gets us back to 2149." Someone insists, though their voice suggests a close edge of hysteria - clearly they've pinned their entire hopes on that impossible escape route.

"Don't be such a stupid ass. Lucas went crazy months ago - if he was ever sane in the first place. The only place we're going to now is hell."

"Screw you!" the voice rises, a little wildly, "Dammit! He didn't lie to us!" And suddenly there are footsteps approaching. Immediately, Taylor withdraws out of sight, and watches as the speaker passes him, moving with the painful awkwardness of a man whose muscles probably feel like they're being stabbed out with needles. One quick chokehold, and he is safely stowed in a nearby tent.

"Jerk…moron…like we're getting out of here alive…" the other voice is beginning to ramble. Looking out from his vantage point, Taylor can see a scattering of playing cards, and a lone man who is now engaged in ripping them to pieces, one by one. The soldier's attention is equally compromised, and soon he, too, is unconscious in the tent.

Further on, moving with well practised silence, Mira's eyes are fully adjusted to the lack of light, and she is obliged to squint as she peeks around a corner to see the flames of a small bonfire, about which three of the soldiers are sitting: hollow eyed and silent. None of them appear to have even the vaguest will to move. As Jim has already surmised, she knows that her assessment is largely right. The camp has run out of water. Unless they obtain more - and in significant quantities - the lot of them will be dead before the coming day is half over.

She watches them, wondering if any of them are going to make things easy for her by walking off into the dark; but they stay where they are and say nothing to one another. All of them seem to have accepted that they are merely waiting to die. Does she feel any pity for them? Should she? They refused to treat her people as equals, demanded that they keep the encampment alive, and gave them as little as they could manage in return. They must've known that, even as they signed up for the mission, there was always a chance that they wouldn't survive - though she supposes that none of them would've imagined that they could end up like this.

Then, finally, one of them gets up, and wanders in her direction. Safely concealed, she draws a good, sharp knife. She remembers this one - he was particularly arrogant - and now he stumbles dazedly towards her, hours - if that - away from a horrible death from thirst. Why not put him out of his misery?

The slice is quick and effective. Even as his blood fountains out, she avoids it and pulls the man into the darkness behind a shed, "I may be a grubby survivalist," she tells him softly as the last gurgling breath leaves his throat, "but at least that means I can survive. Be grateful that you got an easy way out."

When she resumes her watch, the other two are still silent. One seems to have gone to sleep - either that or he's passed out - while the other maintains his wretched vigil, seeing out a night that will bring him only death when morning comes. It's a simple matter to choke him to silence without waking his companion, who is equally quickly left hidden. If they live, fair enough; but perhaps death will come for them while they're unconscious. Angry though she is, Mira is not a _complete_ savage.

By the time the three reconvene and count up, it's clear that they've knocked out every soldier in the camp - just nine men. Mira opts not to mention that it's actually eight.

"Wake up!" the voice is startlingly loud, "Who said you could rest?"

Jim looks sharply at Taylor, but says nothing. They all know the owner of that voice. His expression set, Taylor nods, sharply, and the three advance.

* * *

The need to find Malcolm ahead of Lucas seems to be largely pointless; with both men present beside the blown terminus. From his vantage point, Jim is quickly able to determine that - as far as he can see - the blasted piece of equipment is still useless; then his eyes make their way down to the floor, and he spots Malcolm, lying silent and still upon the ground. That is not good…

"Lucas." Taylor says, quietly, "Enough. Step away from the device."

Slowly, Lucas turns his attention away from Malcolm's recumbent body, and fixes his full attention upon the man he has begun to regard with an almost obsessive loathing, "Not a chance, _Dad_. Don't you get it? I've won. This is my crowning achievement!" He spreads his arms wide, "I have the calculations to force a time fracture to connect with a previous opening! When I'm gone, everything'll go back - and this time, nothing - _nothing_ you do will make any difference. I'll counter you at every turn!"

"With that?" Jim asks, frowning, "How? It's still toast."

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? _Shannon_." Lucas spits out his name with venom, "But you'd be wrong. I am _this_ close to turning things around - and, believe me, when I come through the next time, the _first_ thing I'm going to do is hunt you down and kill you!"

It's like he's seeing things. Is it merely the completion of his journey into madness, or has thirst driven him the rest of the way? "If you think that, then you're delusional." He wants Lucas to move - to get out of the way. It could not be more obvious that Malcolm needs urgent medical attention - and he can't even get to him to start some basic first aid.

"Lucas." Taylor's voice is leaden, "I told you then, and I'll tell you again; even if you can't accept it or listen to it. Your mother would be _ashamed_ of you. She would never have allowed me to exchange her life for yours - but, everything that I see in front of me makes me wish that I had."

"You have _no_ right to talk about my mother like that!" Lucas shouts back, "You sacrificed her! She died instead of me! _I_ should've died! Her death is _my_ fault - and I _hate_ you for that! Do you think I'll ever forgive you for dropping that burden on me? You took everything away - my mother, my life, my work! And for this? For some pathetic dream that humanity can get some second chance? We're a disease upon the face of the earth! This was our mitigation, a chance to find the means to keep going just that bit longer - and it would've made me wealthy beyond your wildest dreams!"

"You think that I care about _wealth_?" Taylor asks, astonished, "I've seen what wealth does to people - why would I want money when I have a good life in a clean world? What the hell right do you, or any of the bastards who hired you, have to come in and take it? Thanks to you, we're all that's left - and no one will ever have the chance to come here and share in our good fortune!"

"Why are we having this argument _again_?" Lucas demands, sounding exasperated, and dry mouthed, "I don't care about your precious second chances crap! There's nothing between us anymore - it died when you took everything that mattered away from me! And I am never going to stop working to take it all away from _you_!"

"Step away from the terminus, Lucas." Taylor advises, quietly, "If you expect Malcolm to finish repairing it, he needs medical attention."

"He's going nowhere. Damn him. He finishes the terminus or I have him punished. He knows that - and he's still sleeping on the job."

"I said," Taylor's voice is dreadful, "Step away from the terminus."

"Or what?" Lucas snorts, dismissively, "How many times have your threats come to nothing? You threw me out of the colony to die - and I didn't. You tried to forgive me, and I stabbed you; and even then you couldn't bring yourself to kill me - you had Bucket try to do it for you. That's the difference between us, isn't it? You can't stop seeing me as your son - but I stopped seeing you as a father longer ago than you'd want to remember. That's how I can do things that you can't: I've given up on the whole 'family' nonsense. I'm ready to get out of here from under your damn nose and hit you again; and this time, you'll have nothing left!"

Taylor eyes his son with disdain, "Do you think I'm going to let you near me with a knife again? I learn from my mistakes."

"Of course you do." Lucas snorts, "Do you see me with a blade in my hand? Of course you don't. But then, you wouldn't - as I don't intend to use one this time." His eyes contemptuous, he reaches to his hip, and retrieves a sonic pistol, "I took this off one of the dead soldiers. It's on its maximum setting - even at this distance, it'll take you out."

"Step aside from the terminus." Taylor tries again. Despite his focus upon Lucas, he is not unaware that Malcolm needs help - and if Lucas is standing over him, there's no way for Jim or Mira to go to his aid.

"And have you damage the repairs? Not a chance." Lucas raises the stolen pistol, "I'll defend this to the death, _Father_."

"Then do it. Shoot me down." Taylor snaps, "Enough posturing, enough games. You take me out, or you put that damned gun down. I'm tired of your complaining, tired of you blaming me for something that you couldn't possibly begin to understand. I'm not taking the weight of your crimes any more, Lucas. Either put the hell up, or _shut_ the hell up."

For a moment, Lucas stares at him, astonished. He has lost count of the number of years that he's hated the man standing in front of him - not just for the past, but also for his father's steadfast refusal to hate him back. In all that time, Taylor has never - not _once_ \- called his bluff.

The pair remain still for several minutes, the weapon in Lucas's hand neither down, nor up.

"It's not too late, Lucas." Yet again, he tries, "Come back with me. Come back to the colony and make a life for yourself. You can't get back to 2149 - you can't even get back to 2151; there's no way of tethering the fracture at either end. The terminus is beyond repair - and the only man who could repair it is going the same way. If not for my sake, or yours, then think about the people who aren't involved. There are still some soldiers alive - and Malcolm. Give me the chance to get them back - and to take you home."

"To what? Life in the brig?" Lucas demands, suddenly furious, "And you think I'll be welcomed back with open arms, do you? Do the insults ever stop? Do you really think that I would _stand_ for that?"

And then he raises the pistol: and pulls the trigger.

Nothing.

"What the hell?" Even more enraged by the weapon's refusal to obey him, Lucas shakes it, points and fires again.

Nothing.

"It's run out of charge, Lucas." Jim advises, a little wearily.

His eyes sad, Taylor retrieves his own pistol, "You thought you could fire that weapon, Lucas." He says, quietly, "And you fired it at me. If that's how you feel, then you're right: There's nothing between us anymore."

"You're going to shoot me?" Lucas asks, without fear, "You don't have it in you. Go on. Shoot me! If you do, then it's the ultimate pyrrhic victory! _Shoot me_!"

"You heard the man, Taylor!" Mira urges, "You promised you'd end this - once and for all. Do it!"

Standing to Taylor's left, Jim sighs, "She's right, Taylor. He'd never integrate into the colony. He'd just spend his time in the brig looking for a way to take you down. You said it yourself - it can't go on."

Slowly, Taylor raises his right arm, his every intention to end this nightmare, once and for all. If not for his sake, then for the colonists who died. For _Alicia_ …

"Do it!" Lucas urges, his voice rising to a scream, " _Shoot me, damn you_!"

"You want me to?" He asks, dully.

"Just end this! Do you think I want to be on this damned world with you? I'd rather be dead! Get it over with!"

"You _want_ to die?" The question is more incisive.

" _KILL ME, DAMN YOU!_ "

His expression one of painful contempt, Taylor lowers his weapon, "No. If that's what you want, I'm not playing ball. Not anymore. You get locked in the back of a rhino, and live out the rest of your days in the brig." Standing very still, he allows the weapon to drop from his hand.

"I _knew_ you couldn't do it…" Lucas hisses, viciously.

"No not can't. _Won't_. You're not worth it. Not anymore."

"Then I'll kill you, you bastard!" his eyes mad, Lucas snatches the handle of the parang, wrenching the blade from its leather sheath. Holding the weapon aloft, he charges at his father, who watches him quite calmly. Then, he reaches for the sword at his side - brought for no real purpose other than in a fit of temper - and extends it, ready to…

He has no opportunity to plan how he will parry any strike from his son, as Lucas's furious forward momentum is such that he reaches the sword before Taylor has readied it. The deadly sharpness of the blade easily cleaves the skin, and suddenly he is standing absolutely frozen, his son skewered upon the point.

They seem to stand there for an eternity, each staring at the other; but it is Lucas who recovers first. His eyes vicious, his expression crazed, he attempts to lift the parang, as the sword is now out of action, but stares in bemusement as it tumbles from his fingers. He watches it for a moment, before returning his attention to his father. Slowly, grotesquely, he clutches at the short blade, and forces himself onto it even further, grimacing and groaning at the pain. Inching forth, he advances until he is nose-to-nose with Taylor, and stared fixedly into his father's eyes.

"I hate you." He hisses, softly, sincerely, "I hate you more than you can ever begin to imagine. You killed my mother, and now you've killed me. You might've won, but you've still lost."

Gradually, his legs begin to buckle, as the damage to his abdomen grows more severe; and then, slowly, achingly slowly, he topples to the ground, the sword rising from his fallen trunk as though it pins him to the ground like an insect specimen.

His eyes filled with pain, Taylor turns to look at Jim, "Shannon. Make sure there's only one death tonight."

* * *

Fumbling for his pack, Jim wrenches out a bottle of water. From this distance, he has no idea if Malcolm is even still alive, and hastily drops down beside him, reaching for his shoulder to turn him so that he can offer the water. As he does so, there is no indication of life as Malcolm's arm shifts across his front, and then flops awkwardly as Jim sets him so that he's resting up against his lap.

"C'mon. Wake up - I've got water." He offers, without success. Words aren't going to cut it, then. Hastily, he unstoppers the bottle and tips a portion into the cap, carefully trickling it over Malcolm's mouth.

The effect is almost instantaneous, as he seems to spring back from his catatonic state: his arm coming up to snatch at whatever it is that has granted him some fluids. Almost at once, it becomes something of a fight between Malcolm, who is concerned only with getting the water on board, and Jim, who wants to make sure he doesn't accidentally drown himself in the process.

"Slow down - it's not gonna get taken away. Take it easy or it'll come back up again. I've got at least two more bottles…"

As he drains the last of the water, Malcolm's arm falls, and he sinks back into unconsciousness again. It's not good - despite it being as cold as it is, he's very warm; chances are that he's got heat exhaustion at best…

Jim turns to see that Mira is kneeling beside him, another bottle of water in one hand, and a cloth in the other that she is soaking in the bottle's contents, "We need to get his temperature down - it's got to the point where the air's not enough." She doesn't wring out the cloth, but instead lays it across Malcolm's throat, in the hope that the pulsing arteries in his neck will benefit from the cooling effect, and start to reduce his core body temperature.

Feeling rather redundant, apart from having his lap used as a pillow, Jim looks back across to Taylor, who is still standing over his son. He feels a sudden nudge from Mira, who indicates that he should let her get on with the first aid, as she has far more experience of dealing with injuries in a more primitive setting. Leaving her to it, he gets back to his feet, and crosses to Taylor.

The Commander watches, quietly, as the last breaths finally leave his son. Retrieving the sword, he looks at it, "If Malcolm dies, then I suppose I can tell Max that her blade avenged him."

"We're working on that. What about Lucas?"

"He's gone. This time, it's definite." He says, quietly. Rather than merely take his word for it, Jim crouches and feels for the pulse.

"He's gone." He agrees, "What do you want to do?"

Taylor stays silent, glaring at the corpse. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel and stalks off.

"Taylor?" Jim calls after him.

"Where's he gone?" Mira looks up from where she is tending to Malcolm, having soaked more cloths that she has set over his wrists, and yet another, which she has folded over his forehead, "Sulking?"

Jim looks slightly helpless for a moment; what if he _has_ gone off on his own?

Then he hears it; the sound of an engine turning over. Then silence, then another, "Nope. Just seeing if he can get us some transport out of here."

"I'll go help. You stay with Wallace."

"Me?" Jim stares at her; not only is he useless with conditions that don't involve large amounts of bleeding, but he doesn't really want to be stuck with Malcolm on his own. Why is he such a chicken, for God's sake?

Cross with himself, he sits down alongside his colleague, and tries to think of something to say.

"Ah'm sorry, Da…ah didnae mean it."

"Pardon?" he stares down, Malcolm's eyes are open, but his expression is rather odd: fearful, and sad.

"Ah was angry. Ah didnae mean to strike out at ye…"

Jim blinks, not only does Malcolm look a bit weird, but what the hell is wrong with his voice? What's that accent? _Scots_?

"Ah wish ye were still here, Da…Ah didnae want ye to go…they were bad men, and they wanted to hurt ye…why did ye no' take me with ye? Ah could'ha told 'em that ye were guid…"

What the hell is going on? Why's he talking like that? Who the hell is 'Da'?

"A miss ye…so much…Mam cries - she thinks Ah cannae hear her, but Ah do. Come home, Da. Please come home… _please_ …"

He sounds heartbroken; what the hell is he talking about? Why is he saying it? Jim stares at him helplessly. Does he think that Jim's this 'Da'? Perhaps he does…

"Ah want tae be Braveheart, like ye told me Ah was…but Ah'm scared, Da…so scared. Why'd the bad men take ye? Why'd they put ye in prison? Mam cannae go out nae more, they told her she cannae work. Why can't ye come home? Ah want ye to come home…Da, Ah miss ye so…"

Jim stares at him helplessly; he has no idea what the hell Malcolm is talking about - but then he knows nothing of the man's past. Is he reliving something from his childhood? God above…he mentioned something about 2119 once - he would've been a child back then, wouldn't he? But why the Scots accent? He's English, isn't he? And yet, he cannot help but be moved by the anguished words. Malcolm's desperately depleted state has left him hallucinating, it seems; though why he's doing so in a Scots accent, Jim has no idea.

The sound of approaching footsteps prompts him to look up to see Mira approaching, "I see he's still dead, then." She says, indicating Lucas's corpse.

"Why not put a stake through his heart?" Jim offers, "That should make sure he stays down once and for all." He looks down, "Malcolm's out again. He was hallucinating a few minutes ago. I don't know if that's a bad sign, but I imagine it is."

"It is. Taylor's found a rhino with nearly a full charge. We need to get out of here."

"What about the soldiers?"

"We've left most of the water and some rations. They can manage for another day or two if we send people back for them. Taylor wants to get Wallace back to the Colony ASAP."

"Sounds good to me. Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

The engine is still running as he approaches, carrying Malcolm rather awkwardly over his shoulder, "I don't want to stop it," Taylor advises, as he leans out of the driver's seat, "It took me too many attempts to get it going in the first place. Get him into the back. Mira, into the front with me. I need you to point me in the right direction."

She neither argues nor makes any loaded comments. Pausing only to hand over another backpack with water and rations, she quickly clambers in alongside Taylor, "The fastest we can go is forty, and that's pushing the envelope."

"Much as I want to get back quickly, I'll balance that with getting back alive." Squinting through the louvres, he flicks on the lights, and guides the vehicle out of the encampment.

The journey is conducted largely in silence. Taylor concentrates entirely upon driving, while Mira watches ahead and warns him of likely dangers in their path. Behind them, in the rear compartment, Jim sits alongside Malcolm, who rests silently upon a pile of blankets. He hasn't moved, or spoken, again since his rather strange hallucinated conversation. Given that he has never been forthcoming about his past - except for the bits which involve Elisabeth - Jim is immensely confused by the odd lapse into a surprisingly strong Scots accent. To hear him speak, one would never have guessed such a thing to be possible - the man sounds English born and bred; though he can't place the accent that he would normally speak. Quite similar to Elisabeth's, but he can't tell the difference between most of them other than the obvious ones like Geordie, Birmingham, 'West country' or Scouse.

Maybe he hit his head on the terminus when he went down. He remembers one of Elisabeth's medical journals had an article about someone who had a head injury and woke up speaking a different accent…it'll be interesting to see if _that_ continues when they get back.

He sighs; at least they've got him - though whether he'll make it back to the colony is anyone's guess. Sitting back against the wall of the rhino, he watches over the man he has never liked very much, grateful that they've managed at least the first part of their mission; they have found Malcolm - but now the real challenge is to get him home alive.


	25. Consequence

Chapter Twenty Five

 _Consequence_

The taunting light of the false dawn is teasing the sky as Reilly looks up from the watchtower with a wide yawn. Much as she loathes night watches, the arrival of the new day almost makes it worth it. Leaning out over the railings, she frowns at the sound of a distant engine, her eyes flitting from side to side as she seeks out the source of the unexpected sound. Is it a rhino? It shouldn't be - there aren't any out of the compound…

 _Oh no…they're coming…_

She straightens up, spots lights, and then relaxes. If the Phoenix Soldiers were attacking, then they sure as hell wouldn't be doing it in a single vehicle. But it must be one of their vehicles - all Terra Nova's rhinos are currently parked in the Compound's garage. Snatching up her distance viewer, she switches to night vision - if she's careful she'll manage to avoid catching the lights in it - and carefully focuses on the approaching rhino, "Unscheduled vehicle approaching!" she calls, just in case she's the only one who's noticed. Beside her, someone is already readying the sonic cannon, "Wait until I get an ID."

It's difficult to see into the cab, as the louvres grant her nothing more than tiny slits, while the vehicle bounces wildly as it barrels along the approach drive at speed. God above, are they going to ram the gates? She tries again, resting her elbows on the railing to steady her hands…

"It's the Commander! Open the gates!"

She hears the sound of the servos kicking into life, which doesn't quite drown out the sound of the rhino's engine giving out. The gate is just open enough to admit it as it coasts in on its momentum alone. Scrambling down the ladder, she wrenches open the passenger door, only to find herself confronted with Mira.

"What?"

Taylor leans around his passenger, "Get a medical team! Now! We have Malcolm and he needs attention! _Move_!"

She needs no additional prompt, and is hastily radioing as she hurries around to the rear of the vehicle. Jim has already booted the door open, "Get Elisabeth here!"

"She's already coming, Mr Shannon - she's the medic on call tonight."

In minutes, a team is approaching, gear in hand and Elisabeth running on ahead, "Jim? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine - we all are. It's Malcolm. He's out. Might be heatstroke - we've done what we can to cool him down; but it's not looking good."

"I'll be the judge of that, Jim." She turns to her team and, as always, begins delivering orders with brisk efficiency while she burrows into a bag for a cannula, then grabs at Malcolm's hand, and slaps the back of it a few times to raise a vein, "Go get Max." She looks up at him, "Take her to my office. I'll let her in when he's stable. _Not_ before - he's critical at the moment, and I can't have her in there with us."

"On it."

Leaving the medics to their work, he abandons the rhino, and the crowd of early-bird stallholders that it's attracted like a magnet, and jogs hastily through the residential area until he reaches Yseult's darkened house. Not wishing to freak her out by using his override, he hammers on the door.

After about five minutes, the living room light comes on, and she is at the door, looking dishevelled and bleary - but only for a moment; the sight of Jim is all that she needs.

"Go get dressed." He tells her, firmly, "Elisabeth won't let you in until he's stable, so there's no point in rushing. If we _do_ need to rush, she'll call me."

"Is he injured?" she asks, a little desperately.

"Just heat and dehydration; no wounds that we know of. I'll wait in the lounge. Go and get dressed, okay?"

She nods, and rushes back into the bedroom.

In less than five minutes, she is back, hastily dressed in yesterday's clothes, her sleep-tousled hair bundled back into a messy ponytail, "Just get me to the infirmary, Jim."

"She won't let you in to see him yet, Max. He needs to be stabilised."

"I know that - but I need to be there."

"Come on then." He ushers her out.

* * *

As she promised, Elisabeth has effectively blocked all access to Malcolm while she and her team work on him. With no means of reaching him, Yseult is obliged to wait in Elisabeth's office, where she paces back and forth like a caged animal, her eyes agonised, "What happened, Jim, why did it take so long to get him?"

"We weren't in time to rescue him from Robert Stanley. Someone else got there first."

"Who?" she pauses, and looks at him, confused.

"Believe it or not, it was Lucas Taylor."

"Commander Taylor's son?"

He nods, "The very same. He took advantage of the opportunity, and escorted Malcolm out to the Phoenix Encampment which was, as Mira promised, on its last legs."

"Why there? Didn't someone say that there was something found out there?"

So rumours have got out then. No surprise, really, "Kind of." He admits, "It's classified. Let's just say that Lucas got it into his head that he could do the impossible, and retrieved Malcolm to mend the terminus that he blew up."

"What happened then?"

"Everything kind of went to hell." Jim admits, "The camp was dying out - their rations were mostly gone, they had almost no means of getting water after the Sixers abandoned them. Their commander kept them there because he believed that Lucas would get them out of there through a time fracture. But he couldn't."

"And they nearly killed him trying to make him repair the terminus?" Yseult asks, quietly.

"I don't know all the details - that's something that we'll have to get from Malcolm when he's ready - but he was unconscious when we got to him."

She sighs, and resumes her pacing.

"Sit down, Max." Jim suggests, quietly.

"I can't."

He tries a different tack, "Well, if you can't sit down, perhaps you could answer a few questions?"

"About what?" she turns to him, her eyes angry.

"Nothing bad - or at least I don't think it is." His expression friendly, he indicates a chair again, and this time she consents to sit.

"What do you want to know?"

"This is gonna sound a bit weird, but, while we were at the Phoenix camp, Malcolm started hallucinating - or, at least, I think that's what it was. He was talking to me in a Scottish accent. Have you any idea why he might do that?"

"Of course I do." She says, very quietly, "He _is_ Scottish - or, at least, he _was_."

"Was?" Jim asks, bemused.

"He had to take English citizenship when he and his mother crossed the border - otherwise he wouldn't have been able to go to school, or stay in England, for that matter. By the time they fled Scotland, full English citizenship was only available to blood relatives. Marriage wasn't enough - I only received a Spouse Residency Card."

"Okay - now I'm _really_ confused. Malcolm _fled_ Scotland? Why would he do that?"

"Do you know who his father was?"

"No. I don't know anything much about him other than he once dated my wife."

"Duncan Wallace?"

Jim stares at her, " _The_ Duncan Wallace?"

"That's pretty much what I said to him."

"That explains a lot." Jim admits, "He once mentioned something about his father and the Edinburgh Hearings. I had no idea that his father was that famous."

She nods, "One of the best known Human Rights advocates in the world, and a vocal democracy campaigner. The Internal Security Committee couldn't _wait_ to get him out of the way - he wasn't actively speaking out against them, but he was something of a figurehead for those who were, so they found him guilty of sedition, largely by association, and sent him to prison - he died there."

"Is that why Malcolm left Scotland?"

"Partly - but mostly because his mother was dismissed from her job after his indictment and imprisonment, and they couldn't afford to stay in their house. It was a choice between remaining in Scotland and being reduced to poverty, or leaving and going to some relatives of his Mother's who were English. That's what she chose to do."

"But I thought he went to a posh school?"

"He did - but he had to do it on a full scholarship. His mother couldn't afford to send him - it's only because he was so bright that he managed to get in. Otherwise he would've been crushed to nothing in a state school."

"I guess that must've been where he lost the accent, then?"

She nods, "He deliberately suppressed it. He would've stuck out, and no one really wants to at that age, so he re-trained himself to speak with the accent you know him for."

"He did it pretty damn well - I've never heard it slip, not even when he's really shouting."

"He did." She agrees, "I shouldn't really have told you that. It was something he told me in confidence."

"I promise it'll never leave these walls."

"Is he going to die?" she asks, suddenly, painfully. Without a word, he catches her in a warm hug.

"After the work we put in to getting him out of there? He wouldn't dare."

* * *

An hour and a half have passed, with conversation long dead, and Yseult pacing again, "How much longer? It can't be taking this long to stabilise him, can it?"

"I'm not a doctor, Max. I don't know how bad it got out there."

And then, at last, the door opens to reveal Elisabeth. She looks tired, but relieved, "He's stable, Max. It was touch and go for a while, but there's no irreversible damage. I'm afraid he's still unconscious, but you can come through now. With a bit of luck, he won't be out as long as he was before - we've not put him in a coma."

Her expression is one of such desperate longing to see him that Elisabeth quickly stands aside and lets her pass, "You'll know where to go - he's in the same bed he was in after he was stung by the scorpion. Don't be alarmed by the drips, we're still rehydrating him."

Yseult nods, and hastens away.

"Will he make it?" Jim asks, quietly, "I don't think she could handle it if he doesn't."

"I don't know for sure at the moment." Elisabeth admits, accepting his embrace, "We've done what we can - the rest of it's up to him, now. Having Max at his side will probably help, though. She's devoted to him, and vice versa. If anyone can bring him back, she can."

"It was Lucas again."

"Lucas?" Elisabeth groans, softly, "Why is it that, just when we feel we're safe and settled, he reappears to spoil it?"

"He won't do it again." Jim admits, "Taylor killed him."

"Oh dear…poor man. That must be the worst thing in the world." Her arms tighten about him, "How did it happen?"

"Lucas tried to shoot him - but the pistol was out of charge. He couldn't shoot him back - I think it was because Lucas was trying to make him do it, so he refused to give him what he wanted. He charged him with that machete thing that Max made - and impaled himself on her sword; so I guess it's something akin to poetic justice. He nearly killed Malcolm, and Max's weapon ended up killing him."

"It doesn't make it any less of a tragedy, though."

Jim sighs, "No. It doesn't."

* * *

At least there are no machines this time, no ventilator, no eyes taped shut. To a casual observer, he might well be sleeping. Sitting down at the bedside, Yseult stares into his face, imprinting every detail of his features into her memory. He's only been gone five days or so - less than a week, for sure; but it feels as though a lifetime has passed since she saw him last. The man who tried to kill him is dead; and the man who stole him from her is also gone. It's over - and he's home; but whether or not he has come through it unscathed remains to be seen.

"You're home, Malcolm," she whispers to him, "You're back with people who love you again. It's over. Come back to me."

She has his left hand in hers, and she tousles his hair gently with her right, "When you're awake, we can decide where we're going to go to celebrate your safe return, and I'm going to get you to sign a contract that you'll never go OTG ever again. Okay?"

"Okay. I promise." His voice is weak, and hoarse, but the intensity of his eyes as they look at her is stronger than anything he could put into words. He has spent a week forcing himself to avoid thinking about this, for fear of what it would do to him, but he is here - in the infirmary, and she's beside him, just as he hoped, "I'm sorry…I shouldn't have gone."

She holds his gaze, her eyes filling with tears, "I love you. More than I could ever hope to express - if there's nothing else in this life, then there's that. I love you."

He doesn't answer, but his expression says everything for him.

"He's awake?" Elisabeth is at the foot of the bed.

Yseult turns to her, and nods, tearfully, then turns back to him, "He was…"

Elisabeth checks the monitors, and then takes Malcolm's pulse, "Don't worry - he's likely to do that a lot over the next couple of days. It's a combination of exhaustion and the residual effects of dehydration. Everything's looking on course at the moment - but I feel I should warn you that he's not out of the woods yet. We need to be prepared for him to deteriorate; there's no telling what damage the heat did to him - it could go from nothing at all to a spate of organ failures. I just can't tell you at the moment."

"Just don't make me leave him. That's all I ask."

"I won't - but it's going to be a longer haul than it was with the scorpion sting, Max. Plus we don't know what happened to him while he was gone. It could get rough over the next few weeks."

"Then we'll help him through it, won't we?"

Elisabeth smiles, and takes hold of Malcolm's free hand, "Yes. We will."

* * *

The sun has risen, and climbed rather high as Jim emerges into the marketplace. The news has long since got out that they're back, though fortunately no one knows much more than that. He certainly can't hear the word 'Lucas' anywhere. The rhino has been towed away to the workshops, where they'll sandblast off that damned Phoenix crest, and repaint it. He is not surprised to find that Taylor is also nowhere to be seen.

Mira, on the other hand, remains seated on a low wall, resolutely ignoring the curious, and in some cases hostile, stares from the people who are arriving to do their daily shopping. Her capacity for statuesque inscrutability is quite extraordinary; despite his misgivings about her, Jim can't help but admire her for it.

"Any news?" She asks, with rather more interest than he would have expected from someone who thinks that Malcolm is a weakling and something of a joke.

"He's stable." He reports, "He regained consciousness briefly, but he's out again now. Elisabeth said it's nothing out of the ordinary - he's probably tired as much as anything else."

"I take it his…metalworker is with him?"

"Her name's Yseult, Mira."

She nods, "A name with two meanings, then. 'Beautiful' and 'Ruler of Ice'. One Celtic, the other Germanic." She looks at him as he stares at her, "I'm not just an unwashed survivalist, you know."

He blinks and pulls himself together, "I think Malcolm would agree with the first one. He's devoted to her."

"Then he's fortunate. More than some; besides, that's what'll get him through this. I have no doubt that Lucas was as unpleasant to him as the Botanist was."

"You still owe me an inventory." He adds, quietly.

"I do indeed. Where's Taylor? I assume he has no intention of going back on our agreement?"

"I guess a lot of it depends on Malcolm's recovery - but given that he's in the infirmary and getting the best care possible, it's a fair bet that he'll make it at least most of the way back if not all. Give Taylor time - he's got a lot to process right now. What he did won't be easy to deal with." He fumbles in his jacket, and hands over his comm unit, "Take this. Once I know what the situation is with Taylor, I'll contact you. We won't go back on the agreement - but I have to ask you to be patient."

She nods, "I understand." She pauses as she turns to go, "He probably won't accept them, but please pass him my condolences. It had to be done, but that doesn't make it any easier."

Jim sighs, and nods in turn, "I'll tell him. Thank you, Mira. For your help - we couldn't have done it without you. Much as I hate to admit it."

"I'm sure you do." For a moment, there's the briefest flicker of a smile, before she turns and departs.

"Guzman." Jim calls as they lower the gate behind her.

"Mr Shannon?" He comes over at Jim's beckoning.

"Over here." He guides his head of security to a quiet corner, "I need you to take a crew out to the Phoenix Encampment as soon as you can get prepped and out of here. You'll need to retrieve our Rover from the edge of the forest - we can go get Malcolm's in a few days - and I need you to check for survivors at the camp. We left eight people out there with water and supplies, check that they're still with us and bring back the survivors. If you find a parang lying about, retrieve that, too."

"Sir."

"And one more thing - this is _really_ important. When you get out there, you should find the body of Lucas Taylor. I want that brought back. If there are any other corpses out there, bury them. Lucas comes back."

"On it, Sir. We'll depart in an hour."

Leaving Guzman to organise the rescue party, Jim looks up at the Command Centre. The doors are closed, the blinds down. He sighs: That's where Taylor's gone.

Mounting the steps, he doesn't bother to knock, but instead quietly opens a door and looks in. Yes - he's there: seated at his desk and staring off into space. The sword is back on the wall, but otherwise, it seems that Taylor has come in here, and not moved since.

"How's Malcolm?"

"Elisabeth says he's stable - drifting in and out of consciousness a little - but she reckons he'll pull through. Max is with him."

"That's good. Having her at his side'll be better than anything Elisabeth can do."

"I've sent Guzman out to bring back survivors." Jim adds, tentatively, "And…Lucas…"

Taylor doesn't answer, but remains very still.

"It seemed the right thing to do." Jim adds.

"I'm still not sure if I meant do to it." Taylor says, after an unnervingly long pause, "I don't know if the sword was there because it just happened to be - or if I put it there."

"I guess, in the end, it doesn't really make much difference." Jim sighs, taking a seat, "We had to stop this - it would've been the best outcome if we could've got through to him…"

"That would never've happened." Taylor admits, "The boy was lost to me a long time ago; even after what he did to us - and what he did to me - I just wouldn't see it."

"You're his father, Taylor. Why would you? If it'd been me, and Lucas had been Josh, then I don't think I could've done any differently from you."

"Perhaps."

"Look - Guzman is going to bring him back, so at least you can give him a decent funeral. It might not be the reconciliation that would've made the whole thing we did into a fairy tale - but even if we couldn't bring him home alive, we can still bring him home."

Taylor sighs, then looks up, "At least it's over now. Whatever happens, he can't come at us again. God, I'm glad Ayani wasn't here to see this. Betrayed by our own son - to the point of mass murder."

"Murder?" Jim stares at him, aghast at such a strong description.

"He went out into the badlands with, what, nearly a hundred people? And we left there with only eight of them still alive. All he had to do was admit he'd failed, and we'd have a more diverse population."

"They would've hated it here."

"Perhaps - but they'd be alive, wouldn't they?"

"That's the joy of hindsight being 20/20, Taylor. They did what they did, and forced us to do what we had to do. It's over now - the threat from the future's gone. Given the amount of money involved, what're the chances of anyone firing up a portal in the near future? If ever again? Chances are that we'll be left alone to build that new world you've been dreaming of."

Taylor nods, then frowns, "Is Mira still here?"

"No - she's gone back to her group. I've given her a comm unit to let her know what we decide. She asked me to pass on her condolences."

To his surprise, Taylor does not scoff at this news, instead he nods, "Call her. Tell her she's in."

"On it." He rises to his feet.

"Shannon." Taylor looks up at him, "Thank you."

* * *

"Vehicles approaching! They're ours!" the voice calls down.

"Open the gates!" Jim calls up. He's not been waiting for those, but the group of people approaching on foot _are_ expected. There are twenty of them left - a ragtag band of survivors - and they follow Mira with various expressions of apprehension or resentment, depending on how keen they are to return to the colony they abandoned and betrayed.

Mira stands aside to allow the vehicles to pass. Unlike her crew, she knows what they're carrying. As soon as they're in, they continue their walk, and Jim greets them, "I'd say 'welcome back', but I think that's going to go down like the proverbial lead balloon."

"I have the staff manifest you asked for."

"Great. I'm afraid I have to deal with Guzman. Reilly here will escort you to your new quarters."

"Quarters?" Mira asks, her expression becoming hostile again.

"Proper houses: don't worry, we're not sending you to the brig. Get your team settled, I'll meet with you at fifteen hundred hours to go over your manifest so we can start matching people into jobs."

The hostility diminishes. Nodding curtly, Mira consents to follow Reilly away from the Marketplace and a multitude of staring eyes.

Guzman has, sensibly, driven the rhino through to the garages, along with the retrieved rover, "I've got another team bringing Malcolm's back - they should be here in the next hour."

"Good. Saves sending people out again."

"How is he, by the way?"

"Malcolm? Doing well - he's awake more now, and starting to get snarky, so we know he's getting better."

"Yseult must be relieved."

"And how. Elisabeth's still tripping over her. How many people did you get?"

Guzman sighs, "There were three left. They fought each other over the supplies. I found that parang, it's in the rover. The… _body_ is bagged up and ready to be prepared for burial - though it's pretty decomposed, I'm afraid. It was hot out there."

"So I can smell." Jim says, wrinkling his nose.

* * *

"You're looking _so_ much better." Elisabeth observes, with a slightly brittle edge to her voice, "But if you carry on complaining about being stuck in here, then I promise your next set of meds is going to include a sedative."

"I just want to go home." Malcolm admits, though the edge of complaint has faded from his tone, and he looks rather forlorn.

"I get that - but you're not well enough. Not yet - your right kidney needs more time to regain its full function. I don't want to send you home only to have to rush you back and take it out."

"Where's Max?" he asks, nervously, suddenly realising that the two of them are alone.

"I sent her home. She's tired and she needs to rest. She did ask me to leave you that toy cat - apparently it's the thing she treasures most in the world after you." She points at the bed-side cabinet.

He turns, and a faint smile plays across his mouth, "That's Schmidt."

"Ah, I see."

"You do?" Malcolm asks, bemused.

Something that Pete, her woodsman, said when I was visiting her while you were…away." She doesn't like to use the words 'missing' or 'a captive'.

"Will she be gone long?" He is nervous again. It seems to her that he has a lot invested in Yseult being around him; he's almost certainly not as 'recovered' as he'd like to think. She'll probably need to be prepared for a meltdown of some sort before he's out of the infirmary.

"I don't know, to be honest." Elisabeth admits, "I don't think it's likely - she wants to be here as much as you want her to be here."

She leaves him in peace, though he seems to go dreadfully tense as he realises that he's being left on his own. Later, though, when she checks in on him again, he's asleep. And he's cuddling the cat.

* * *

"God of mercy, we acknowledge that we are all sinners. We turn from the wrong that we have thought and said and done, and are mindful of all that we have failed to do…"

The words of the Chaplain echo back from the leaves of the trees at the far end of Memorial Field - well away from the resting places of the other colonists. Standing alone at the graveside, Taylor listens quietly, but speaks only when an answer is required from him by the order of service.

"We have entrusted our brother Lucas to God's mercy, and we now commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"

Could he have done more? Could he have saved the boy? Perhaps; perhaps not. But now he'll never know. The only certainty that he has is the knowledge that his son can never threaten the colony again.

And then it's over. His expression solemn, the Chaplain speaks the _Nunc Dimittis_ , "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation…"

He stands over the open grave, and eyes the body-bag at the bottom. It was hard to do it, but he needed to be sure - so he opened it and looked upon the bloated, blackening features of his son, decomposed by the dreadful heat of the badlands. So many people died for his dream - a dream in which he longed to bring down the dream of his father. And for what? Revenge?

 _I'm sorry Ayani. I know I keep on saying it, but I am. I failed him - and in failing him, I failed you. Look after him for me, will you?_

His eyes sad, he withdraws. There are no tears - the time for tears long gone. Instead, he walks away, and allows the burial party to fill in the grave. Once the earth has settled, the stonecutter who incised the letters on the memorial for those who died in the occupation will create a simple marker to show where Lucas lies.

Perhaps, eventually, he'll find it in himself to visit that grave like he visits Alicia's, but he suspects, with a heavy heart, that he shan't.


	26. Questions

Chapter Twenty Six

 _Questions_

Elisabeth checks the results of the latest battery of tests on her plex, and smiles with satisfaction. It's been rather longer than she hoped; but today, at long last, Malcolm is fit to be discharged from the infirmary. Her initial thought that it would be no more than a few more days until he could go home had been scuppered by a vicious infection that had flared up unexpectedly from the insect bite on his shoulder. So deep had been its grip upon him, that, for nearly a day and a half, Yseult had sat clutching his hand and mopping at him with a cool cloth as he tossed deliriously in the grip of a high fever, and Elisabeth had become very concerned that she might even lose him.

His recovery, however, has been remarkable, despite her concerns that the infection might have damaged his liver. Everything is functioning normally again, and she is confident that today is the day that she can finally allow him to return to the home he hasn't seen in nearly five weeks.

"What's the news, Elisabeth?" She looks up to see Yseult in the doorway, her expression hopeful.

"All clear, Max. If he's ready, then I'm happy for him to go home today."

"If _he's_ ready?" Yseult looks a little concerned, "Why, do you think he won't want to go?"

"After he got so roundly clobbered by that infection, particularly as it struck him down just as I was on the verge of releasing him; he seems rather nervous that something else might go wrong. He was full of questions when I was running the tests this morning."

"I think it was a shock for all of us." Yseult admits, "He seemed absolutely fine, and then, in less than an hour, he was unconscious again and we were all frightened he was going to die. Why did it take so long for that infection to hit him?"

"It hid itself in his liver, Max - and that extended its quarantine period. He was very lucky it didn't do any damage when it erupted, to be honest. That said, it's the one organ that can come back from next to nothing. We could have managed his condition while it recovered." She pauses as her plex beeps again, "Why don't you go and sit with him for a bit? I just need to update his records, and then we can talk about getting him home."

Yseult nods, and moves to go, then Elisabeth looks up at her again, "I have to say - he looked very sweet when he was cuddling your toy cat."

She laughs, "I dropped a bit of my perfume on Schmidt so that he smelled of me. I think that probably did it - Malcolm isn't normally one for cuddly toys."

"It sounds silly, I suppose, but I could see it was a real comfort for him when you weren't there."

"You make him sound like he's a child."

"Sometimes, when you're that ill, you feel like one, don't you?" She smiles.

Yseult smiles back, "Yes - I suppose you do."

Malcolm is propped up on the bed, his head turned slightly towards the window, but his attention obviously elsewhere. Yseult watches him for a moment, wondering what he's thinking. From his expression, the thoughts are not particularly pleasant, so she opts not to ask him about it.

"Hey." She says, softly, "I thought you'd like to spend a bit of time cuddling me instead of my toy cat."

He turns and looks relieved to see her, "I could do with some of that." He holds out his hand, and she perches on the bed beside him.

"Elisabeth's just updating the results of your tests onto your records; she'll be through in a bit to discuss letting you go home."

"She mentioned that this morning." He agrees, quietly, but seems oddly unenthusiastic about the whole business.

"I thought you couldn't wait to get out of here."

"Three weeks ago, I couldn't. And then I dropped like a stone. Everything seemed okay - and then it wasn't."

"You've had the all clear, Malcolm. It won't happen again."

"I know. It's just…" his voice fades, and he rests against her. He doesn't need to finish the sentence: she gets it.

"I've brought a grip with some clean gear. That might help?"

The sound of footsteps on the wooden floor attracts their attention, and they both turn to see Elisabeth approaching, "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Malcolm admits, "As long as there's nothing else waiting to jump out at me."

"Your results came back showing no sign of infection - it's all gone. Your liver function is 100%, and everything else is working fine. I think there's no reason to keep you here."

He nods, but seems disinclined to move while he has Yseult so close. She turns to him, "If it's cuddles you need, then there'll be plenty once we get you home. It's not a hospital exclusive."

"Fair enough." It sounds like an admission of defeat rather than an expression of relief at finally being allowed to leave.

"I've got you some clean clothes." Yseult reminds him, "If you want to get dressed, I'll be with Elisabeth in her office. Okay?"

He nods again, though he still looks far from happy.

Once in her office, Elisabeth turns, "Before you ask, Max: yes - physically he's fine. Being felled by that infection was a terrible shock when he thought he was pretty much better - in some ways, I don't blame him for being afraid to leave."

"I know." Yseult sighs, "Do you think that this is to do with what happened to him, as well? Jim hasn't told me much - but from what he _has_ said, Malcolm had a dreadful time."

"That's equally possible. I don't know much about what happened, either - I think Jim isn't talking because he doesn't want it to get around the Colony before Malcolm's ready to talk about it himself. There's a lot that we don't know, and the last thing he needs is people speculating or spreading rumours about it."

"Maybe he'll feel a bit better once he's home. At least he's not got a soldier wandering around after him any more. The person who was trying to kill him is dead so that's something, I suppose."

Elisabeth nods, "Tell you what - why don't you come over to ours for dinner once Malcolm's up to it? I think it's about time that I stopped Jim being quite such a coward over socialising with my ex; particularly now that you've closed that door once and for all."

"Only if they're both happy with that. It could be dreadfully awkward otherwise." Yseult smiles at the idea.

The walk back to Malcolm's house is slow, and he says nothing as they walk, though his arm is tight about her shoulders, as though he has no wish to let her go. Now that they're outside in the open air, she can see that he's quite pale where he isn't still a little reddened by the fading remnants of sun exposure, and there are shadows under his eyes: he looks strained, as though holding back a hideous maelstrom that threatens to engulf him.

For a brief moment, Yseult thinks that the grip might fail as they enter his house. His eyes sweep left and right, taking in the surroundings, and he seems to tremble. But instead, he grips his arms more tightly about her, and holds her close, "I dreamed about this." He tells her, "That I'd bring you back here. It kept me going." She doesn't need to know that he did everything he could to avoid thinking of her, as to do so caused him intense misery, and a belief that he would never see her again. In some ways, the lie comforts him as much as it comforts her, as she wriggles about to face him, her arms tight about his neck as he holds her close.

"Do you want me to stay tonight?" She asks, quietly, "It's okay if you don't. I imagine you'll just be grateful to be sleeping in your own bed again."

He wants to say yes. Desperately wants her to be with him as the darkness draws in; but the untruth that he found so comforting is now suddenly a ghastly barrier. He's lied to her - he's said something false just to make her feel better…

"Maybe another night." He says, quietly, "I'm still very tired - I think I'd be dreadful company for you."

Why is he saying that? He wants her to stay; wants to sit down on the couch and hold her close like he did before…before… _don't think about it…just don't…_

She smiles at him, "That's fine. I understand. I'll be by tomorrow, okay?"

"Of course." Suddenly, from nowhere, he is struck by such a sense of self-loathing that he cannot even bring himself to kiss her. Dear God - he _lied_ to her…

If she is hurt by his apparent withdrawal, she doesn't show it. Instead, she squeezes his hand, smiles, and lets herself out. No sooner has the door closed than he sinks down on the couch, slumps over on his side, and moans faintly as he fights to hold back the tears.

* * *

"Where's Max?" Elisabeth asks, as she runs through some results on her plex. While she has no doubt that Malcolm is fully recovered, he doesn't seem to be quite as convinced, and so she has found herself obliged to make a home visit to reassure him.

"She's at work." Malcolm says, quietly, "She'll be back at lunchtime."

Setting the plex aside, she regards him with concern. He still looks tired, and drawn. In the week since he's returned home, he should be recovering his strength - and yet he seems listless, indifferent, "I'm sorry if this comes across as being too forward, Malcolm, but how are things between you and Max?"

"She's fine - she comes over every day for lunch."

"That's not quite what I meant." She says, quietly, "Are things alright between you?"

He sighs, "Is that really any of your business?"

She isn't blind; the rumours have already started - everyone knows that Yseult only seems to come over to his house at lunchtime these days; he never emerges, and she no longer spends the night with him. Yes, it's rather intrusive; but at the same time, it's helpful for Elisabeth. That Yseult and Malcolm have not resumed their former intimacy concerns her - what's gone wrong between them? It must be over what happened to him - but he has not, as yet, divulged to anyone the events that occurred while he was missing. Even Jim has refused to tell her what he knows; making it clear that it's something that only Malcolm should do. To her mind that means only one thing - the experience was highly traumatic, and he has no idea how to deal with it.

"When was the last time you went outside?" she asks.

"The day I came home." He admits, then looks up at her, "What reason do I have to go out?" He asks, defensively, "You've signed me off work for six weeks - what am I supposed to do?"

"Rest - socialise with Max, go for walks. Whatever you want. I haven't imprisoned you in the house."

He wants to tell her, shout it at her…why the hell would he want to go outside, where someone could shove him into an aluminium locker and bury him alive? Or force his head under water as an alternative to killing him with thirst? What about all-but roasting him in a locked metal box? The thought of facing the scrutiny of people who are almost certainly gossiping about him doesn't help…

Or how about the nightmares that routinely shatter his sleep? There's a damned good reason why he doesn't let Yseult into the bedroom, or into his bed. What if he stabbed her with the large kitchen knife he keeps within reach for fear that the horrors in his dream will follow him out of it when he wakes up?

And, most recently, the horrible, insidious sense that someone is entering the house. Every morning, something has been moved - never anything important - just something innocuous that he might even have misremembered leaving that way himself. He never dares to emerge from the bedroom before daybreak - the fear that he might find something becoming an almost ingrained behaviour that he can't control; and in some ways, he's beginning to wonder if he's going out of his mind.

The one thing he wants, more than anything, is to reach out to Yseult, hold her - tell her everything, and let her cradle him as he cries - but he's lied to her. He's broken her trust in him, and that is, to his mind, unforgivable.

He has no idea that he's wringing his hands. Elisabeth watches him solemnly as he does so, but doesn't draw his attention to it, knowing that's probably holding his fragile control together. If only he'd let go of it; but he's too staid - too…too… _British_ , to allow that veneer to break, and start to find a way to heal. How can anyone help him if he won't accept the offer of help?

The front door opens, and they both look up, though Elisabeth's attention is on Malcolm's expression: waiting to see how he reacts to the arrival of the woman he so deeply loves. Oh yes - she's welcome alright; his eyes are absolutely fixed upon her, his expression one of anguished relief. He can't bear not to have her near, and yet still he cannot bring himself to resume the tactile intimacy for which they were becoming rather renowned.

"Hi Elisabeth," Yseult's greeting is friendly, as she juggles a few cartons of food from the market. As he's not using it, she's taking advantage of Malcolm's rover so she can travel to and from her work compound quickly. Otherwise she'd probably have to work half days - which would impact on her working hours significantly, given that she's visiting him every day, "Everything okay?"

"Absolutely fine. Nothing hanging about to worry about. Do you need a hand with that?" she asks, as Yseult tries to close the door.

"I'm good - but thanks."

Elisabeth turns back to Malcolm, who still hasn't taken his eyes off Yseult, "I'll update your records, and I'll drop by in week to see how you're doing. I appreciate that you're getting a bit stir crazy, but you're not going back to work until I say so. Alright?"

He nods, almost vaguely, his attention entirely occupied elsewhere. Just as well Max is distracting him, or he might well try to object. She remembers that he used to deal with problems by over-working until he'd largely forgotten them, or they'd resolved themselves.

"I'll see myself out." She adds, waves to Yseult, and departs.

Setting the plates out on the table, Yseult sits as Malcolm joins her. She isn't a fool - she can see that he's lost weight. This is the only meal that he's eating, and he wouldn't eat this if she didn't bring it, and sit down with him to make sure he finishes it. While he generally picks at it, he does actually consume what's on his plate; and, while he never says a word while he does so, her presence is always welcome once they sit down together for an hour on the couch.

 _Talk to me_ , she thinks at him, _Tell me what's happening. I can see you're frightened - but I can't help you if you won't let me in._

As always, his arms are tight about her - telling her more than words can express that he cannot bear to be without her; and yet he can't bring himself to go any further. He hasn't kissed her; much less touched her intimately, since just before he left with Robert. It's almost as though he has withdrawn back to that chaste state that marked the first stages of their relationship. Is it because of Niall again? Aren't they past that?

It seems not. Looking at her watch, she sighs: time to go back to work, "I've got to go."

He says nothing, but he tenses, sharply. He always does it - but still, when she offers to stay, he demurs. Always - as though he doesn't wish to be any trouble.

"See you tomorrow?" she offers, quietly.

His eyes absolutely fixed upon her, he nods.

* * *

 _Lucas is standing over him, his eyes maddened, screaming unintelligible words that lack meaning, but do not lack intent. He is on his back, his arms and legs spreadeagled and held firmly, and he cannot move. Lucas threatened this…he's failed, and, as promised, he is being punished. But not with sun, not with heat. Oh God…please God no…no…no…_

 _Clicking, skittering sounds…the clatter of a multitude of pedipalps snapping together…and they come in their thousands, black-shelled scorpions that seek out his skin to sting, to strip the flesh from his body…and then they are crawling, crawling, crawling…crowding over his torso in their droves, scrambling up onto his face…into his mouth…_

Thrashing wildly, Malcolm forces himself out of the dream that has tormented him almost every night since he first crawled into the bed in which he lies after Elisabeth threw him out of the only place he considered to be safe. His eyes wide with horror, he snatches at the knife and examines his bedclothes, the floor, the walls; everywhere he can think of that might prove a refuge to those hideous creatures that emerge out of the darkness to cover him in a suffocating coat of arachnids.

Moaning softly, he sets the knife aside and clutches at the covers as though that might perhaps offer him some comfort. Lucas is dead - or so he's been told. He didn't see it happen - he has no memory of it - but Max has told him about the grave that sits well away from those of the colonists interred at Memorial Field. Maybe that's why he can't accept it. He saw Robert's body, _knows_ that the hate-filled botanist is permanently gone - but Lucas just keeps on rising again. And even now he is ever-present; a taunting ghost that refuses him the refuge of sleep.

As dawn comes, he turns over and stares hopelessly at the bedside clock. He should sleep - he knows it's important that he do so, but the fear of dreaming again is so intense that not even his encroaching exhaustion can defeat it. Maybe a lie-in?

But even that, he cannot do. No - doubtless his nocturnal visitor has returned. Perhaps everyone is trying to make him feel better by telling him that Lucas is dead. Perhaps he isn't…and if he isn't…then he is still a wanted man. Still a…what did Lucas call him? A valuable commodity…

His eyes wide and fearful, he opens the bedroom door and looks out, tentatively. At first, there is no sign of anything being different, and he sighs with relief. Maybe a cup of coffee might help.

Reaching for the coffee pot, he sets it ready while he opens the kitchen cupboard…

 _Did you think I was gone?_

The words are inscribed on the inside of the cupboard door, picked out in a brown substance that could be dried blood. His eyes wide with horror, Malcolm stumbles backwards, away from the hob, the coffee pot…and the dread accusation. It's not happening…it can't be happening.

"You're dead!" he demands, looking about in all directions, "You're bloody dead! Leave me alone!"

If the words are bad, the silence that follows is even worse. But what does one expect from a dead accuser?

But what is he being accused of? Being unable to effect the impossible? The terminus was beyond repair - it was Lucas's obsessed determination to defeat his father that drove his conviction to the contrary.

"There is no such thing as a ghost." He says, firmly, "I am a rational scientist. There is _no_ evidence to support the existence of ghosts."

Nonetheless, he slams the cupboard door shut with startling violence before he flees to the shower. Ten minutes later, he emerges, still miserably tired, but now in clean clothes and with damp hair. Tentatively, he approaches the door again; this is ridiculous. Ghosts do not exist…it was a trick. Someone's put it there…

He opens the door, only to find it clean. Oh, dear God - did he imagine it? Was he seeing something that wasn't there? What the hell is going on? Shaking violently, he huddles on the couch, too afraid to return to the bedroom, too afraid to call for help. Now he's seeing things…his mind really is starting to go…

The sound of the door opening shocks him out of his contemplations, and he looks up to see Yseult, who has arrived, as always, with her daily delivery of lunch. Where the hell has the morning gone? Did he fall asleep?

She sets the cartons on the counter, and looks across at him with a mild frown, "What's wrong?"

He wants to tell her. So much…but he lied to her, and that lie still stands in his way; an insurmountable barrier that he cannot bring himself to overcome.

"It's okay. I got woken up in the night by something outside; probably a passing pterosaur. I couldn't get off again."

This time, as they sit together, he clings to her with the desperation of a drowning man. The nightmares are crippling; and it seems to him that he is losing his mind - he is imagining that Lucas is haunting him. He _has_ to be imagining it - ghosts don't exist…

As she always does, Yseult checks her watch, "I have to go."

As he always does, Malcolm fights with himself not to beg her to stay - and always he lets her leave. Once she's gone, he resumes his endless brooding until he looks up again to find that darkness has fallen, and he faces another night of misery alone.

* * *

Jim looks up from his 'desk' at Boylan's, "Hi Max. How can I help you?"

Yseult draws up a chair, "Tell me everything you know, Jim. Who was involved in what happened to Malcolm, what you know about what was done to him. He's breaking apart, and I haven't a clue how to reach him - if I have at least some idea, then that might help."

Jim looks at her in surprise. While he hasn't seen Malcolm at any point since he disappeared off to the infirmary, he assumed that it was simply because he wasn't seeing him when he came out of the house - not because he wasn't leaving it, "What, Malcolm? He doesn't seem the type to have a breakdown."

"Is there a type?" Yseult asks, pointedly.

He has the grace to look embarrassed, "Look, I don't know a huge amount, okay? Most of what happened, I didn't see happening. Most of it's gonna have to come from Malcolm; but I'll tell you what I can."

Yseult sits quietly as he relates the minimal amount of information that he has. Her eyes widen in horror at his explanation of the aftermath of Robert Stanley's planned revenge, and the discovery of some of what happened at the encampment, which he was able to glean from one of the survivors.

"He's had it bad, Max. I don't think he's had to face that kind of trauma before; it's not the same as what happened when he was a kid - these were serious, overt attacks on him, and he went through hell. He didn't see Lucas die, so he's having to take our word for it. Given the number of times we thought Lucas was dead, I imagine that's something he's having trouble believing."

"Can you come over today? I always take some lunch to him at midday, sharp. Perhaps if you carry out some form of investigative interview - say, you need to know if you need to bring charges of any kind against the Phoenix survivors. If we can find some way to get him talking, maybe I can then deal with the rest."

Jim's expression is one of mild consternation. He doesn't like Malcolm all that much, and tends to deal with him only when he must - and that hasn't really changed since Yseult came into his life. Their combative relations might have long since lost their edge, but that hasn't been replaced by a friendship. Is he really the right person to go in there and try to persuade a traumatised man to open up?

His conviction that he's probably not the right person increases almost exponentially the moment they arrive at his house. From his uneducated standpoint, as far as Jim's concerned, Malcolm's barely hanging on by a thread. The man looks ready to explode, for God's sake - it should be Elisabeth doing this…

"Jim." He says, quietly.

"Malcolm." Jim responds, "I'm sorry to bother you - but, you need to know that we brought in some survivors from the encampment. They're in the process of being matched up to posts within the Colony. After what happened, I need to know if any of them should have charges brought against them, so I'm afraid I need to interview you."

Malcolm goes rigid, his eyes fearful, "I'm sorry…I can't."

Yseult crosses to join him, and takes his hand, "It's okay, Malcolm - you don't have to do this alone. If you're not ready, then that's fine; but the longer you leave it, the harder it's going to be."

They stand together, their eyes fixed upon each other, for nearly ten minutes. Watching them, Jim shuffles, uncomfortably. It's almost as though they're having a telepathic conversation. Yseult's hand rises to rest upon his cheek, and he looks at her painfully, but then nods. "Alright."

Jim sets his recorder down, "Before I start, I promise that this is for my purposes. No one'll hear this - not even Commander Taylor if you don't want him to."

"How much do _you_ know?" Malcolm asks, tensely.

"Very little." Jim admits, "What I have, I've picked up from witnesses. You don't have to tell me about what Robert did to you if you can't do it. Mira mentioned it."

"Mira?"

"She helped us get to the encampment."

He shakes his head, sharply, but then starts, "Has Commander Taylor told you about a woman called Allison Jones?"

Jim nods, "I know about that - and that it was nothing that you did."

"You'll know that Rob thought otherwise? He was the one who compromised the structure of the building that collapsed, and he washed out the glassware in the labs with acetone."

"Both of those attacks failed, though…" Jim muses.

"They were _meant_ to." Malcolm says, quietly, "I was supposed to be so spooked by them that I'd want to get out of the compound; and he had a project that I could work on, so I took the bait completely. He'd been planning the whole thing for the best part of a year."

"A _year_?" Jim stares, incredulous.

"God, I thought that I was safe when I heard the sound of the rifle shot. But I wasn't."

"Lucas." Jim agrees, and notices Malcolm shudder violently at the name.

"He wanted to take my rover - but Robert had sabotaged it, so we walked out of the forest. He had a rhino waiting at the edge of the badlands. He knew his way through those forests better than anyone ever has. Even that idiot Fickett." For a moment, there is a spark of mild venom over the impostor scientist that had so delighted in insulting him, as though he is his old self again. It doesn't last.

"Lucas put me to work on the wreckage of the terminus. Nothing I could do would persuade him that it wasn't possible to get it working again. He'd become utterly fixated on forcing a time fracture to connect to a previously open portal." He pauses, his expression pained, "Needless to say, I couldn't do it; so he…punished me." His voice cracks slightly. Almost at once, Yseult is holding him even closer.

"What did he do?" Jim prompts.

"Denied me water, and locked me in an aluminium crate out in the full sun."

"That's crazy - why do that? I thought he wanted you to repair that damned terminus?"

"Like I said: Fixated." Then Malcolm looks down at the floor, "Can we not do this? I really don't want to think about it."

Jim nods, understandingly, "That's okay - it's a start." Then he pauses, "Sorry to ask this - but, if Robert was setting up accidents to get you out of the compound, why did he release the scorpion?"

"He said that he didn't."

"He _didn't_?"

"Having me die of asphyxiation was his idea, yes - but he was furious when he found out that someone else had nearly got there first." Malcolm resumes his perusal of the laminate flooring.

Jim stares at Yseult, who returns his look with worried dismay. If Robert Stanley didn't release that scorpion. Who did?


	27. Answers

**A/N** : My goodness, I've lived up to my name, haven't I? Leaving that last chapter hanging like that! Evil!

As always, I own nothing other than that which has fled in panic from the confines of my brain...

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 _Answers_

Malcolm thrashes his way out of yet another nightmare, his subconscious coating him again in a multitude of scorpions. There is no need to reach for the lights; he no longer extinguishes them. Knife in hand, he crouches on the bed and stares about, searching for the creatures that must have followed him out of the dream - a conviction that he cannot seem to shake.

Nothing.

Shrinking back under the covers, he sets the knife down, and moans, faintly. He can't take much more of this; and yet, the pattern seems to be so utterly established that he can see no way out of it. If only Yseult were beside him - awake, holding him close and soothing his jangling nerves; but he lied to her - and that small, insignificant untruth has grown to such monstrous proportions in the depths of his conscience that he is absolutely certain that she would despise him for the telling of it.

What the hell is wrong with him? He's a capable, rational human being; a highly qualified scientist - and yet…in the midst of all that has happened to him, he has become a shuddering, nervous wreck that starts at his own shadow, and has all but rejected that which he values to the uttermost.

Dawn is breaking, and - yet again - he has failed to go back to sleep. The tiredness is bone deep, and yet still he can't persuade his racing mind to settle, and let him rest. Worse, what if there are more messages? Despite his absolute insistence that there is no such thing as a ghost, the dread that another message in blood awaits him has given him cause to wonder otherwise - and he is horribly afraid that somehow Lucas has circumvented his demise and is truly haunting the house. Where has his sense of rationality gone? God; he really is losing his mind…

Forcing himself to shower and dress, he emerges from the bedroom and looks about with wide, frightened eyes. Nothing looks out of place; but then, nothing did yesterday, or the day before - until that message appeared, and then vanished. He is still not entirely sure that he didn't imagine it.

Slowly, mechanically, he makes himself a coffee, and retires to the couch to drink it. Nothing so far - but he has gone to such lengths to lock himself in that perhaps even a ghostly revenant of Lucas Taylor can't reach him.

And then he sees it…his picture of Yseult. He has plenty on his plex, of course - but somehow it seems less personal than a proper, printed image in a frame. Her face has been cut out of it…

"Leave her out of this, Taylor!" he shouts out, looking all about as though he expects to see the bastard lurking in a corner, enjoying his torment. It's bad enough that Lucas is haunting his every move - but now the one he loves appears to be in the monster's sights. God no - how could he survive if she's in danger?

When she comes at lunchtime - he'll warn her…though whether she'll believe him is debatable; based on the evidence so far, he isn't entirely sure that he isn't going mad.

"Not her…" he whispers, almost in tears, "Leave her out of it…if it keeps her safe, then just do whatever you want to do to me - just not her."

The silence is not at all reassuring.

* * *

"What's for lunch today, Max?" Pete asks, cheerfully, leaning against the wall of the shelter and watching as she stands at the furnace to heat some iron to continue shaping for Geoff's power loom.

"I haven't decided yet." She says, concentrating on the metal at the end of her tongs, "Didn't Sal say she had some good steaks of gallusaur available today, Mike?"

"She sure did. If you take the last ones, then I may well have to kill you." He advises, facetiously, as he works the bellows, "One of them has my name on it."

"I'll bear that in mind." Pulling the searing metal from the furnace, she sets to work on the final shaping of the iron, carefully measuring as she goes. She might not have Mike's brawn - but there's no denying her mastery of metalworking. Within a matter of minutes, the piece is shaped to her liking, and she quenches it in a large trough.

"I'm done for the time being, Mike." She calls across, "How about putting the kettle on?"

He rolls his eyes, humorously, "Slavedriver." Still grinning, he turns and departs for the covered workshops where they maintain a small kitchen.

"How's Malcolm doing?" Pete's voice is more serious.

She looks up at him, "Barely hanging on, Pete. I can't get through to him; he obviously wants me with him - but it's as though he can cope with only so much, and no more. Somehow, even though he lets me leave after lunch, I know he doesn't want me to go. He's frightened of something: really frightened - but he can't, or won't, say what it is."

He sighs, "I take it sex is off the cards at the moment?"

"Since you put it so bluntly; yes." She admits, "I don't know what it is - he holds on to me like he used to when we first started dating; but he can't seem to do anything more intimate than that."

"It's not you, sweetie. Just remember that; okay? By the sound of it, he's having major problems at the moment - and I'm willing to bet it'll all come out in one big messy explosion. Then you can work on picking up the pieces. You just need to be ready, and keep on making sure he knows you care."

"Oh, there's no danger of me not caring, Pete. I'm being there as much as I can be, and when he's ready to reach out to me, I'll be ready."

He hugs her, "You're a good woman, Max - and, regardless of my pissing about and joking, he's a good man. Even a raddled old queen like me can see how much he loves you. Once he gets past this, it'll be better than ever. You'll see."

"I hope so. It was going so well before this happened, so if it's better, then I think I'll be practically in heaven."

"Yeurgh…that's just too sicky, young lady." He smiles at her, "Right, I've got another Project Scrumpy planning session that's going to require extensive fondling of seedlings, so I'll see you tomorrow."

"You lucky man." Yseult returns his smile, "Thanks for your support."

"Always there, darling." He blows her a blatantly false kiss, "And make sure you nick the last gallusaur steaks. I've never seen what Mike looks like when he cries."

* * *

"Where's Pete going?" Mike asks as he approaches with a brace of mugs.

"Oh, just another Project Scrumpy escapade. I think he's so desperate to have a reliable supply of the stuff that he'll do whatever it takes to get hold of it."

"Taste of home, huh?"

"Something like that." She accepts the mug of coffee and smiles, "Thanks, Mike."

"You're welcome." He pauses, "You okay?"

She nods, "I've just had that conversation with Pete. No need to repeat it if you don't want to."

"Don't worry about it. How is he?"

"Struggling. He doesn't say anything, but I think it's getting worse, not better."

"What, you think he might crack up?" Mike asks, his voice concerned.

"Not in so many words; at least, I hope not." She sighs, "I suppose I'm most worried at night - he looks so very tired; he can't be getting much sleep, which makes me wonder if he's having nightmares."

"And you can't get in?"

She nods, her eyes worried.

"Maybe this is just his way of letting you down gently?" Mike asks, tentatively, "Whatever happened, perhaps it's made him rethink things."

"No - I don't think so. The way that he holds me when I'm with him, and his reluctance to let go, doesn't suggest that."

Mike pauses, "How about I give you the security override code?"

"The override?" Yseult stares at him, "You know it?"

"Yeah. I charm it out of Maybright. She keeps me informed of it so we can meet up for off-the-record recreation where people can't see us."

"How long have you been doing that?"

"A couple of years - believe me, she's worth it."

"Does anyone else do that?" she asks, astonished.

"Not that I know of. Of course, she could be a total nympho, but I doubt it. She's very…devoted. Just our little secret."

Slowly, Yseult turns to face him, "So, you've known the override code for the last two years - and she just tells you when it gets changed?"

He nods, "I can tell you, if you like." Then he sees the look on her face; a sense of dawning horror, a realisation that she can't bear to accept, and yet must. Slowly, the smile fades from his lips, "You okay, Max?"

"Oh, my God…it was you, wasn't it? You broke into the research labs and broke the catch on the vivarium. The only other people who would have been able to have all been accounted for…"

Mike stays silent for a few minutes, his expression growing horribly cold as he allows what can only have been a pretence to drop away, "What choice did I have, Max?"

"What are you talking about? You're in a relationship with Kate Maybright…"

"That's just sex. Something to pass the time until that stuck up snob burns you and you realise who you're meant to be with."

"You?" Yseult stares at him, "What do you mean? We're friends - we've been friends for years; I've never seen you any other way."

"Don't give me that. I've been here for you since before we came to this damn place - I've _earned_ your love, and you give it to Captain damn Khaki from nowhere!"

"Are you suggesting that you're somehow _entitled_ to have me because we've been friends for a few years? Where the hell did you get that idea from? I was married!"

"Hell, don't I know it - don't you realise that the day he died was the best day of my life? It meant you were free - but you've been a total tease ever since! Dressing in those tight tops, talking to me like I'm superman and then taking up with that damn scientist? What's he got that I haven't?"

"If you think _that_ about me, then you'd never even be able to comprehend the first _thing_ about what attracted me to Malcolm; and why the hell should I be obliged to tell you?"

"Because you're mine!" he demands, suddenly furious at some perceived insult or other that she cannot fathom, "I've _earned_ you! I'm sick of being in the friend zone - I want out of it, and it's time that I got what I deserve!" Raging, he flings aside the mug he's been carrying, "If you can't see it, then you go sit in your shed and think it over for an hour. See if you've changed your mind!"

He is far larger than she is, far stronger - and his grip on her arm is brutal, "And don't think you can get your darling Commander Taylor to come running!" his free hand snatches at the alert beeper - the converted tags that they've all worn since Graham's accident - and wrenches it from about her neck. Dropping it on the ground, he marches Yseult across the yard to the windowless shed that she uses as an office. Shoving her inside, he slams the door shut, and bars it firmly so that she can't force the door.

"Mike!" She calls through, "For God's sake! Why are you doing this? I've never been interested in you in that way - and I've never given any hint that I might be! Mike!"

"I'll be back in an hour - and I expect you to be thinking the right way when I open that door, Max." His voice is horrible, and then she hears his footsteps retreating.

"Mike? _Mike_!" She bashes on the door, then shoulders it as hard as she can. No go. Immediately she looks around for something that she can use as a battering ram, or perhaps something to prise and bend away one of the panels that form the walls. He's chosen his time impeccably. No one else is in the main compound - all in their workshops well away from the hideous racket of the forge. Even Pete's gone.

She's on her own.

* * *

Still seated on his couch, Malcolm looks up at the clock on a nearby shelf; five more minutes and she'll be here. For one brief hour, he will feel safe - and the horror will recede into the vaguest veneer of normality as he holds her close. If it weren't for Yseult, then he knows that he would have fallen part weeks ago.

The thought of leaving the house still horrifies him. Elisabeth has been obliged to make another house visit, since he looks for any excuse he can manufacture to avoid going to the infirmary. He has no other visitors; but then, he has no other friends. The only friend he had was Robert Stanley - who tried to kill him.

 _Don't think about it…_

His face creased with pain, he looks back up at the clock, and frowns. Five past twelve - she's never late…what's going on? Bemused, he rises from the couch and crosses to the window that overlooks his front veranda. No sign of his rover. No sign of her.

For a moment, the ghastly thought that she's finally lost patience with him and given up rises in his mind, and his legs almost buckle beneath him. No…she wouldn't…she couldn't do that to him…she _couldn't_ …

"No." He says, firmly to himself, "Even if she _had_ got fed up, she would tell me. She must be ill."

And then he freezes in fear. If he's going to find out if she's alright, then that means he has to go outside - into that hostile world where people can bind him and bury him alive, deny him water when he's out of his mind with thirst…

 _Do it, damn you. She needs you._

Forcing his hands to stop shaking, he reaches out for his jacket, dons it, and - for the first time in three weeks - opens his own front door.

* * *

Her hands are scraped and grazed, and she has achieved precisely nothing. The shed survived that bad storm last autumn, after all, and it's extremely solid. She wanted it secure - but with the intention of stopping people breaking in. She never imagined that she would have to attempt to break out.

What the hell is wrong with Mike? Has he always been like that and never shown it, or did it emerge when Malcolm came on the scene? His enmity has always been overt - but she thought it was merely because he viewed Malcolm with scorn because he didn't work with his hands. They are, after all, craftspeople; whereas Malcolm is a scientist. Surely he isn't _that_ unreconstructed? She's had good friendships with all the men on her team - none of them seem to believe that this somehow grants them the right to an exclusive relationship with her. With Pete, of course, it's because he's gay - but then Geoff and Graham have wives. The rest of her team she knows well, but has never palled up with to the same extent.

 _Fair point. I'd rather be the only Gay in the village. Mike's in love alright - though I think it's probably with his biceps…_

Pete's always been perceptive of other people's feelings - did he see it? Or did he realise that Mike was nursing an unrequited love and didn't know at whom it was aimed?

Has she done something to lead him on? She dredges through her memory for anything that he might have misconstrued, or misunderstood; but nothing springs to mind. What was all that nonsense about tops? They're not overly tight; though they make it clear that she's a woman - what did he want her to do; wear a baggy sack?

And then she realises: it doesn't matter what she has, or hasn't, done. The problem is Mike's and Mike's alone. If he can't be persuaded to accept he hasn't got a chance with her, then she'll just have to find a way to get past him, and away from the compound. He doesn't have the code to start Malcolm's rover - at least, as far as she knows. Who's to say that the override for vehicles is the same as for doors?

 _My God…he tried to kill Malcolm. He tried to take away the most precious thing in my life in the hope of replacing it with himself…_

Knowing that Mike is willing to stoop to outright murder in order to get what he wants is a monumentally unhelpful thought, as it causes a dreadful rush of fear. No - she can't afford to wilt into panic like some pathetic damsel in distress. If she's going to get out of this, then she must stay calm, and aware of her surroundings…

But what if he uses her imprisonment to go in search of Malcolm? God, he's completely unaware of the danger - he'd have no idea that Mike wants to get him out of the picture. She's got to get out of this shed, by whatever means necessary…

And then she freezes: Footsteps…

"Well?"

It's him.

"What do you want, Mike?" She asks, keeping her tone reasonable. While she doesn't want him to think she's caved, she also doesn't want him to think that she's absolutely refusing him - or he might leave her trapped and go off to kill Malcolm.

"You know what I want. Drop Captain Khaki and take up with me. You won't regret it, Max. He's pathetic - how could he possibly satisfy someone like you? I can do that - so much that you'll be crying for more and wondering why you bothered with him."

Does he see her as a human being? Or just an object to have sex with? How on earth did he hide this attitude from her? Had she known he thought like this, she would never have picked him to come through the portal.

"That's a matter of opinion, Mike."

"Let me prove it."

"I can't do that behind a locked door, can I?" The last thing she wants is for him to come in - the very idea gives her chills of revulsion; not just because of his attitude, but the thought that allowing him into the shed might give him the impression that she's offering her consent. But if he doesn't unbar the door, then she can't get out.

The sound of scrapes and bumps is both welcome, and frightening - though not half as horrible as the sight of him in the doorway, a look of almost childish hope on his face. He really believes she's changed her mind…

Forcing herself to smile, she leans back against the desk, her hands feeling carefully behind her for the only weapon within reach - a solid paperweight made from one of their earliest steel blooms. It's heavy, knobbly - and, if she can swing it hard enough, it'll stun him enough for her to get to the rover.

"That's right." He says, breathily, and she cringes at the sound; God, oh God - does he mean to demand sex here and now? No. Not a chance. Not _ever_.

Her eyes fixed upon him, she waits as he approaches. He raises his hands, then lowers them, then raises them again, as though shy of her. _Closer…just a bit closer…_

Mike's huge right hand extends, his intention apparently torn between her cheek and her bust. Then he reaches up to cup her cheek, leaning in for a kiss…

Without hesitation, she swings the paperweight with all her might.

" _You filthy bitch!_ " He catches her arm, and the paperweight drops away with a heavy clatter. He is too large - too strong…too quick.

Then he has hold of her shoulders, shaking her violently, " _You've asked for it!_ " Pressing his entire weight against her, he shoves her back against the desk, forcing his lips onto hers. Revolted, nauseated, she has only one option left. And takes it.

His scream as her knee drives up into his groin is piercing, and he staggers away from her, his hands clasping at the source of his pain. She doesn't stop, doesn't offer a comment. It's the only opportunity she has to escape. There's no time for some smart comment or other.

Snatching at the door, Yseult scrambles through, and runs.

* * *

There's no one on the path out to the Sustainable Industries compound, a simple track that, while well lit at night, weaves through uncleared forest that serves to mask the noise of their industry. Alone, shaking, Malcolm forces himself to keep going. Lucas is not going to threaten him; Robert Stanley is not going to jump him…it's alright…it's going to be fine…

His first stop, at Yseult's house, proved fruitless. She wasn't there, so now he makes his trembling way out to her place of work in case she's hurt. It's the only reason he can think of to explain her absence.

Something rustles in the bushes to his right, and he skids to a terrified halt, staring at the shaking leaves. Something's in there…

And again…

And then a cimolodon bolts out across the path in front of him. Nothing more than a primitive mammal…

 _Move, you coward. Move…_

Still trembling with fright, he resumes his journey. She hasn't come - and she never misses a day. She must need him - and he is damned if he's going to abandon her.

* * *

The rover is parked up close to the covered workshop, on the other side of the forge; hopefully he hasn't sabotaged it…

The weight of the blow across her shoulders causes her to stagger, and then she is grabbed, violently, " _NO!_ "

"Don't even think about it - if you need me to prove that I can satisfy you better than your stupid scientist, I'll do it here and now!" Mike's voice is trembling with barely controlled fury.

"Let go of me, damn you!" she struggles against him, "I don't want you! I've _never_ wanted you! Get your hands off me!"

Mike hurls her to the ground, where she lands heavily. Immediately, he is on top of her, pinning her to the gravel, "If you think that you can pretend that you don't want me, then it's too late - you've been teasing me from the moment your husband died! Did you take up with that damned scientist to spite me? _Did you_?"

"Stop it, Mike! _Stop_!" she hopes that she might break through his anger, his need to overpower her, but instead he slaps her across the face, a brutal blow that shocks her into stillness.

"Oh Christ, you're mine…you're finally mine…" he is burbling now, excitedly. Has he been dreaming of this? How on earth didn't she see it? Has she been wilfully blind? Did he give anything away? She can't remember now, "come on, let's do this." Even as his free hand is fumbling at her garments, he bends down towards her face, aiming to force a kiss as she turns her head to the side to avoid him.

" _NO_!" she screams, as loudly as she can, " _MIKE! STOP! PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T!_ " Volume is her only ally now. Surely someone will hear her given the the forge is not operating.

He needs both hands to unfasten buttons, but with one pinning her wrists, he has no choice but to keep trying with the other even as he chases her mouth with his, trying to claim that unwanted kiss. With no other weapon at her command, Yseult puts everything into her screams. He can't hold her mouth shut _and_ strip her…

"Shut _UP_!" he rears up, and slaps her again, even more violently, "You've been asking for this for years! Don't even try to keep teasing me: that just makes you a whore!"

She is dizzy, slightly stunned by the second blow, and she feels a damp coldness as the breeze hits the blood emerging from the corner of her mouth. Not wishing to waste the advantage he has been given, Mike releases her wrists; both hands now free to grasp at the fabric of her garments…

And then he cries out, sharply, falling slightly to the side.

"Get your bloody hands off her!"

Forcing herself to gather her wits, Yseult looks up to see Malcolm standing over them, a heavy lump of wood in his hands. Mike's weight has shifted just enough for her to move, and she scrambles backwards, freeing herself from his bulk.

"Has he hurt you?" Malcolm asks, hurling the wood aside and hurrying to crouch beside her.

"No - you came in time…I'm okay…" shocked, she sits up, trembling with a cold fear, and staring at her entirely unexpected assailant as he slumps on the ground.

"Here." Malcolm shrugs out of his coat in response to her shivering, "Put this on."

Shaking, she wraps herself up in the garment. It's warm from his body heat, and smells of his cologne… _no…don't cry. Not here. Not now. The rover…we need to get away from here…cry later…_

"Oh, here he is. The knight in khaki armour."

They turn at the sound of the vicious, sarcastic tone. So much for a stunning blow: Mike's back on his feet.

* * *

His expression set, his eyes angry, Malcolm stands in front of Yseult, offering what little protection he can in the face of a man who is at least twice his weight, "Get back from her. She's made her objection clear - if you try again, then I swear I'll…"

"You'll what?" Mike interrupts, scornfully, "Go back and hide in your house? Cower in panic because something moved?"

Malcolm frowns, "What do you mean?"

"He's got the command override." Yseult clambers to her feet behind him, fastening his coat, almost as though she is sending a signal to Mike that his scrutiny is resolutely unwelcome, "He used it to get into the labs and smash the catch on the vivarium. He's the one who let the scorpion out."

"And paid you a few visits, _Malcolm_." Mike grins, horribly, "I scared the hell out of you, didn't I? 'You're dead! Leave me alone!' Who did you think it was that left that message? What's your dirty little secret?"

"You?" Malcolm stares at him in horror, " _You_ were in my house? _Why_?"

"You took something from me. Something of mine. When the scorpion didn't work, I was wondering what else to do; and then you went OTG - and disappeared, and I thought I wouldn't have to worry about you ever again. How's that for history repeating itself? First Niall, and then you. But then Taylor and Shannon got you back! When you got out of the infirmary, everyone knew you were a mess: I thought you'd benefit from some gas-lighting. Sooner or later you'd've cracked up completely - I just wanted to speed it up."

"What did you do, Mike?" Yseult asks, coldly.

"Things in my house were moving around," Malcolm whispers, faintly, "small things; things that I couldn't remember if I'd moved them myself or not - and then there was a message written on the inside of a cupboard door; but it disappeared. I thought I was going mad…but I wasn't. It was him…he was breaking into the house…"

"That was easy – write it, clean it, watch you freak out. Like I said - you took something of mine. I wanted it back."

"What? _Me_?" Yseult demands.

"You're mine. I wanted you the moment I saw you; even with that husband. You've been mine from the moment you were widowed: you just haven't accepted it yet."

"She's not yours." Malcolm declares, his voice stronger now, "She isn't mine, either. She's _hers_. She's with me because she chose to be - I don't possess her any more than you do."

"Screw you, you patronising bastard. You don't deserve her. You've spoiled it. All of it - she would've been mine until you turned up. If you're gone, then she'll realise that she's meant to be with me."

"I'm not gone."

"I can do something about that." Mike moves horribly fast, grasping two handfuls of Malcolm's shirt and wrenching him forward, "She got over Niall. She'll get over you - particularly once she's screwed me and realised what she's been missing all these years."

For the first time in weeks, Malcolm fights back. He couldn't fight Robert once he was bound, nor could he fight Lucas for the same reason. Lashing out, he manages to catch Mike across the jaw, but the huge man merely laughs at him, and pulls at his shirt again, forcing him round to face the entrance to the forge, "What do you sound like when you scream?" he asks, "I mean, _really_ scream? Shall we find out?" Grinning, he rips the front of Malcolm's shirt apart, sending buttons scattering in all directions, and forces it over his shoulders, halfway down his arms.

His strength is insurmountable, and Malcolm is helpless to stop Mike from dragging him into the confined space of the forge, where the furnace still burns. The bellows may not be in operation, but the heart of the charcoal is still glowing white, the tongs abandoned over it…glowing a dull red…

"Oh God…" Malcolm tries to pull away, only to be released, and then shoved back against the wall of the shelter, a thick, meaty hand enclosing his throat. Both his hands claw at that painful grip, but are no more effective than if he was brushing the man's wrist with feathers.

Reaching out with his free hand, Mike hefts up the tongs, "What do you think?" he asks, conversationally, "Belly or chest? Shall we ask Max to choose?"

His eyes are fixed on that dull red glow, wide with horror. He can't begin to imagine how much the burn will hurt - he no longer remembers the pain of the shock prod that the two Sixers used on him. Pain doesn't linger in the memory as anything other than a remembrance of it happening. He retains that awareness that it hurt - but not the sensation…

"Put those tongs down, Mike - or I swear to God I'll smash in your skull."

The two men turn to look at Yseult. Her eyes deadly, her expression as set as Malcolm's had been when he stood in front of her to protect her, she hefts the heaviest of the hammers.

"Fine. Don't choose. I'll do both." Mike abandons the tongs, as ordered, and then forces Malcolm forward, pushing him towards the furnace itself.

"Oh God!" The heat rising from it is intense against his bared skin, and he can't push back - he isn't strong enough. He wouldn't have been even if three weeks with only one meal a day hadn't weakened him…he can't stop…he's going to burn alive…

The weight pressing against his back is appalling, the heat rising from the charcoal scorching his dangling shirt; he can almost feel the hairs on his chest singeing…it's pointless, but he can't keep himself from reflexively pleading with Mike to stop as he is forced, with sadistic slowness, closer and closer to the burning charcoal.

But then the pressure is gone, and he tumbles back from the edge of the coals as his assailant topples, still gripping his shoulders. Shocked, breathing fast, he scrambles away, then turns to see Mike on the deck; Yseult standing over him, the hammer gripped tightly in her hands, "I told him…" she says, weakly, "I told him what I'd do…he didn't listen." Slowly, she lowers her hands, and lets the weapon fall to the ground with a solid thud. She is fighting to keep her composure in the face of her unwanted act of violence. No matter what Mike has done, smashing his head with a hammer would never have been what she would have wanted to do to end it.

Painfully, Malcolm gets back to his feet, shrugging his scorched shirt back over his shoulders as he approaches her, "Come on. Let's get out of here - we need to alert Commander Taylor."

Yseult nods, and raises her tag, retrieved from where Mike had dropped it, "He's coming." Then she looks up at him, her eyes anguished, "Hold me, Malcolm. Just, please…hold me."

He doesn't hesitate, "I think you beat me to it. I was going to say the exact same thing."

"I never thought he would ever do something like that…never…"

"Max." He shifts slightly so that they're face to face, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

She shakes her head, and clings closer to him, resting her cheek against his bared chest, "No. You hit him before he could. He didn't even touch me - he was too busy looking."

"That was an intrusion too much, Max. If he's survived that blow, then he needs to face Commander Taylor for it. The only person who has exclusive rights to your body is you."

"You get access privileges." She smiles a rather watery smile at him, as he guides her back out into the open air, "How did you know I was in trouble?"

"You didn't come." He says, simply.

"So you came looking for me."

He nods, "I'll always come for you."

"That's a horrible cliché; but I'll accept it on the grounds that we've both just had to fight for your life."

"I'm glad you felt I was worth it." He says, very quietly, "After the way I've treated you the last few weeks."

"That doesn't matter. Not right now - we can deal with it once we're home. Can we just get out of here?"

A ghastly growling snarl behind them freezes them in their tracks, and they turn to see Mike, his eyes glazed, blood dribbling down his face from a head wound.

"The hell you can go. Do you think this over? I'm just getting started!"

* * *

He's standing beside the scrap metal pile; the one that Yseult warned Zoe to keep away from. Reaching amongst the rusting shards, he retrieves a long, viciously pointed iron stake abandoned to rot with the other flawed pieces, "Damn you, Max. You could've had me, and you want _that_?" he glares at Malcolm with livid contempt, "If you think I'll stand for that, then you're an even stupider bitch than I took you for! Do you think you can do that to me? Lead me on and then wave a pathetic jerk-ass in my face - who can't even go out of his house without getting scared?"

Frightened, but angry, Yseult glares at him, "I have _never_ done anything to lead you on! _Never_! Anything you think I've done is in your own twisted imagination! I thought you were my _friend_! And you tried to rape me! That's what it would've been, Mike - rape! I would _never_ have willingly submitted to you!"

"You can think that if you want - but he can't have you. You're mine - and if you won't accept that, then you can take the damn consequences! Either I have you, or no one does!"

As his voice rises to a shriek, he raises the pole, point forward, and surges toward them.

Without hesitation, Malcolm grasps Yseult, and turns his back to Mike: placing himself in front of that advancing weapon. Elisabeth is a brilliant surgeon…he can trust her to do her best for him; and, if not, then at least Max will live…

The air is rent with the blast of a sonic pistol at maximum setting. Malcolm is facing the wrong way, but he hears Yseult scream in horror, and slowly turns.

Mike's expression is one of shock, and confusion. He stares at his improvised weapon in bemused dismay as it drops from his now weakening grip. Then he shifts his gaze to the other sharp point. The one that is protruding from his chest…having impaled him as he was blasted back onto the scrap pile. Then he coughs, spurting blood out of his mouth, his body weight slowly forcing him ever further downwards. A few more horrible, rattling breaths, and then he is silent.

Slowly, Malcolm and Yseult turn together, to see Taylor standing nearby, freshly emerged from a hastily commandeered rover. His eyes are narrowed with anger, the sonic pistol now lowered.

"Thank God for those emergency beepers." He says, simply.

* * *

Sitting on his couch, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, Malcolm waits quietly for Yseult to emerge from his bedroom. It was a simple matter for him to change his shirt - but she wants to rid herself of any evidence of Mike's assault on her, and is in the shower. Their interview with Commander Taylor was short, as he was far too courteous of their circumstances to demand that they traipse up to the Command Centre for a full on investigation. Explanations can wait; it's not as though they were the instigators of the scene he encountered after Yseult activated her emergency alarm.

When she appears, she has replaced her dust-covered top with one from the small stock of garments that she left there when she was regularly staying the night, and comes to sit with him as he extends his arm around her, "I'm sorry."

"What for? What did you do? I can't see anything that you did wrong."

"I should've realised Mike was obsessed with me. I should've…"

"How?" Malcolm asks her, softly, "What signals did he give off? And I don't mean ones that you have to look for and interpret - I mean overt ones that are a dead giveaway."

She sits for a moment, turning the thought over in her mind, "None that I can think of apart from his regularly insulting you. I just assumed he was being like Pete - even though Pete's gay. And Pete stopped doing it once we were an item." Then she turns to him, "How hard was it for you to come and look for me?"

Now it's his turn to sit in silence, thinking of how to respond, "I think it was probably one of the hardest things I've ever done." He admits, after a long pause, "I spent most of the journey thinking that I was going to be abducted and dragged off to a pit somewhere, or out into the desert again. A cimolodon scared the hell out of me by rustling around in the bushes - I thought it was Lucas, or Rob."

Even though he now has an explanation for the horrible fears that Lucas was haunting him, there are still demons that he has no wish to raise, and that dreadful, insurmountable lie that he told her…suddenly his eyes are full of tears.

"What is it?" Yseult whispers, softly, "It's okay - you can tell me. You can tell me anything - you know you can."

"I lied to you." He moans, miserably, "I told you that thinking of you kept me going when I was in the camp…but I was lying."

"What do you mean?"

"I tried with everything I had _not_ to think about you - because it hurt too much…I couldn't stand that I might not see you again; we were all dying there. The water was running out, and there was no sign of anyone coming for me. I was scared out of my wits - and I couldn't bring myself to think of you because it just made it all worse…" and then the tears begin to flow freely, "Rob tried to bury me alive, Max. He locked me in a box and buried it in a bloody great hole. I only got out because Lucas found him and wanted me for his own reasons…if he hadn't, he would've left me in the ground to die…I was terrified. I thought those two bloody Sixers were frightening, but they were nothing in comparison to that…"

Her arms tighten around him, and he clings to her, "I've been having horrible nightmares - Lucas has me pegged out on the ground and I get covered in scorpions that start ripping the flesh off my bones…every single bloody night…and I have a knife in the bedroom in case the little bastards come out of my dream…oh God, Max, I can't do this…I can't…not anymore…"

He clutches closer to her and sobs; painful, bitter paroxysms of anguish that have been dammed up for long enough, and can no longer be held back. Yseult says nothing, just letting him cry as her own tears fall in sympathy with his pain. What, after all, can she say that will help him? At least, however, he's letting it go this time. He couldn't when the Sixers tortured him - but she swore when she found out about that that he would never be forced to conceal pain ever again. She is keeping her promise.

Eventually, he calms again, "I'm sorry…"

"For being human?" She asks, softly, "For feeling pain?

"Not so much that," he murmurs, "For behaving like I'm the only one who's feeling it. Mike tried to hurt you - and if I hadn't come looking then there's no saying what he might've done." He tightens his arms about her, and she sinks into his embrace, "It's all very well for me to sit here and blubber like an idiot - but it's not just about me, is it? Not now."

Yseult says nothing, but she shakes her head, and then shivers, "If you hadn't come, I think he might've killed me once he'd finished. There was no way I would've submitted willingly to him - and I would've gone to Elisabeth and Jim to report him."

"I think hearing you scream officially ranks as the worst thing that's ever happened to me." Malcolm says, quietly, "I heard you, and I knew you were in danger - and even what Rob did to me can't touch that realisation that I might lose you. When I saw what Mike was _doing_ …"

"I can't help wondering if there was something I could've done to stop it from happening." Yseult whispers, tearfully, "That I should've realised what he was thinking and found some way to get out of it."

"Yseult," he looks at her, his eyes intent upon her, his use of her name an extra level of sincerity, "You did _nothing_ wrong. Don't let him pull you into the trap of blaming yourself for his behaviour. You wouldn't let me blame myself for what happened to Lucy when that building came down - and I was no more responsible for that than you were for Mike's attack on you. He had no right; _no right whatsoever_ , to do what he tried to do."

"He turned me into an object." She adds, "Something that existed solely for his gratification."

"I meant what I said to him." Malcolm reminds her, "You didn't belong to him. You don't belong to _me_. You belong to you. I know that sounds like one of those godawful 'new man' clichés, but I was lucky - I had strong role models when I was growing up who made it very clear to me that I didn't have any rights when it came to a woman's body. I haven't forgotten that. If anyone even hinted at that to him, he didn't take any notice."

She rests her head on his chest, then lifts it again and looks about, "It's got dark. I hadn't noticed."

"Neither had I." He extricates himself from her arms and switches on the light, "Do you want to stay tonight?" he tries to be casual, but he can't disguise his rather desperate hope that she will.

She looks at him, her eyes alive with tears, "God, yes - please. I don't want to be alone."

"Nor do I." He admits as he joins her on the couch again. Without hesitation, she sinks back into his embrace, entwining the fingers of her left hand with his. Then she shifts slightly, and looks up at him, "Would it be terribly forward of me to remind you how much I love you?"

"Remind away." He smiles at her, the horrible weight of his untruth to her dropping away in the light of his admission, taking his inhibitions with it as they share a long, loving kiss.


	28. One Big Happy Family

**A/N** : And so a new world dawns - one without obsessed sons, rampaging Sixers and shadowy corporate fat cats with expensive armies. Time to look to the future!

* * *

 **PART FOUR**

 **HOME**

Chapter Twenty Eight

 _One Big Happy Family_

Standing on his veranda, Jim stretches briefly before setting out for his daily combination of exercise and security patrol. The air is clear and fresh thanks to the rain that fell overnight, and the skies have cleared to allow the rising sun to light his way. The day promises to be very warm later on, but at the moment, it couldn't be better.

Jogging easily, he makes his way out to the fence line on his usual route, where there is nothing of note or concern. He waves cheerfully at one of the stall holders, the wife of Yseult's Miller, Graham, as she stacks fresh spelt loaves that still steam from the oven onto a rather jerry-built trolley to transport them to the marketplace. If he's had an early start, she's been busy since the early hours - only a dedicated artisan could be so keen.

As he makes his way around the edge of the market place, one element of his morning run that is new - and rather unexpected - joins him, "Morning Shannon."

He's still not used to this, "Er…morning Mira."

Of all the new people who have come into the Colony, she is the one person he couldn't find a place for. Her skills are undeniable, and she has proved to be an excellent leader - but they already have leaders. Thus, with no other career path open to her, she will be starting her new job today as his deputy: Terra Nova's two-person civilian police force. It's an idea that they have mutually formulated during previous morning runs - though Jim has found it far harder to persuade Taylor to allow her access to a sidearm should they need weapons.

There is an air of sadness about her that is only really becoming clear to Jim now that he is losing his almost instinctive distrust. Her motives for aiding the Phoenix Group stem from more than mere profit - unlike those of her followers. They were specifically hired, but she had an additional prompt to grant her aid; and the price she has paid for the loss of the terminus vastly exceeds that of those who came with her. Such is her fierce pride, however, that even now she rarely speaks of it.

They run in silence. While Jim is capable of being almost gratuitously garrulous at times, Mira has never been one for pointless conversation, and her refusal to fill silences with witless chatter is as disconcerting to him as it is remarkable. Eventually, however, she consents to speak, "How are things progressing with the wedding?"

"Slowly," he admits, "Maddy's kind of set her heart on a white dress - but we haven't got access to white material to make it. I'm going to go talk to Max today, find out how that loom's going."

"And how's Max?" Like everyone, Mira has fallen into the habit of using Yseult's nickname, despite hardly knowing her.

"She's fine - particularly now that she and Malcolm are back together properly." Jim wonders how much he should tell Mira, though there's no one in the colony who doesn't know what happened at the forge a month ago. The details aren't well known, of course - but rumour and speculation has emerged in an attempt to fill in the gaps, despite his resolute attempts to stem it.

"Just as well Taylor killed him - what was his name; Mike?" Mira says, grimly, "If it'd been me, then he would've lost things."

"He was built like an elephant." Jim reminds her.

She doesn't reply, but her glance at him is quite pitying. She is, of course, a far more capable fighter than Yseult, and probably knows points of vulnerability on a man's body that the altogether more demure metalworker hasn't even heard of, "Though I'm still astonished he got up again after she hit him on the head with a large hammer." She adds.

"Elisabeth found the reason for that when she did the autopsy." Jim says, "Sometimes when people get a whack on the head, it causes a bleed - but they can still function for a short time."

"Of course." Mira nods, interpreting the explanation, "An epidural haematoma. He must've recovered into a lucid period. He would've keeled over even if Taylor hadn't shot him - but how long it would've taken is anyone's guess. He could still have killed them both before it happened - or not."

Jim doesn't quite glare at her for her additional knowledge, but it's close.

"Look." He says, suddenly drawing to a halt, "Before we start working properly, I need to know; I get that I can rely on you, but I need to know that you're going to accept the discipline that this job needs. Are you going to accept authority from me?"

She stops as well, and eyes him with an odd expression: not scorn, nor dislike, but not entirely respect either. There's no doubting that she accepts he's a capable, skilled individual - and that he has Taylor's absolute trust, which she lacks. She also lacks his ability to not take himself too seriously, and he suspects that it's that aspect of his personality that she particularly struggles to grasp.

"If you mean, 'am I going to contradict you, object to your orders or show general low-level insubordination', then feel free to say so out loud. I'm not blind - I'm well aware that letting bygones be bygones is hardly going to be easy. I'm also under no illusions that we're about to embark upon some form of glorious friendship." She looks off into the distance, "This is not what I envisaged - and my intention at this point in time is to make the best of it. I imagine that'll change as time passes; but at the moment, I'm working on accepting that this is how it has to be."

Jim regards her again. She isn't as fortunate as he is - his children are here with him. Her daughter, on the other hand, is not - and the means to reunite with her has gone. Probably forever. No matter how uncertain he is of her loyalties, there's no doubting her courage and forbearance.

They resume their run again until he reaches his house, "Shift starts at oh nine hundred. I'll meet you at my office in Boylan's."

"Boylan's?" she stares at him, surprised at his choice.

"Josh does better coffee than Taylor." He offers.

She looks at him with slightly narrowed eyes, and then there is just the briefest ghost of that smile again - before she turns and continues her jog back to her own place.

* * *

Pete hands over a steaming mug of coffee, "Try that blend - Geoff's upped the arabica."

"Thanks." Yseult accepts it and takes a sip, "That's good. I like it."

Her desk is in the workshop where they keep their kitchen equipment these days; the shed that she once used now in the process of being pulled down to be replaced with storage buildings. After what happened there, she wants rid of it - though she's drawn the line at re-siting the forge. Everyone is solicitous of her feelings these days; probably because they all feel guilty at failing to hear her screams when Mike attacked her.

"Pete." She looks up at him, "What's happening with gossip? I can't believe no one's talking about it."

He sits alongside her on the desk, and puts an arm around her shoulder, "They are - a bit. No one knows what to make of it - none of us saw it coming - and no one's pretending they had suspicions. I knew he was nursing some unrequited lust or other - but I had no idea at all that it was aimed at you." He looks at her more closely, "You should know that no one's thinking that it was obvious, and you didn't do anything about it, or that you should've stopped him before it got to that point. We all thought he was just a good mate like me, Graham and Geoff."

She nods, "If he'd chosen any other time…it's only because he coincided with lunchtime and locked me up so I couldn't go and visit Malcolm. He came in search of me when I didn't turn up with lunch." She shudders.

"Christ, I'm sorry Max." Pete sighs, "I had no idea at all that this was going to happen - why did he snap? It's not like we've never left you two alone for long periods before."

"I found out what he'd done. He was pretending to be helpful, or maybe he was genuine - I have no idea. He offered to tell me the security override for the doors in the colony. He must've not realised that I knew that the person who smashed the catch on the cover of the scorpion's vivarium got into the labs using the override. Once he noticed I'd figured it out - it all changed. I suppose he felt he had nothing to lose. I didn't know that he'd been using the code to break into Malcolm's house overnight and move things around."

"He _what_?" Pete stares at her, shocked. This, none of the team knew.

"I don't know what he thought he'd achieve - but it made Malcolm start to think that Lucas was haunting him."

"How did he get the override?" Pete asks, quietly.

"Kate Maybright - she kept giving it to him so they could find unoccupied places to meet for sex when she was on duty. When Taylor found out, he sacked her."

"Good."

"I don't think so." Yseult shakes her head, "Have you seen her? She's my height, a similar build to me and she's got brown hair. Given what he was saying to me, I think Mike was using her as a substitute. She was completely into him - and if she was as into him as I'm into Malcolm, then I can understand why she did it. Besides, after this happened, she sort of figured that out for herself. You have no idea what she's lost thanks to him - what I went through is pretty minor in comparison - I still have my job, and the man that I love."

"I don't call attempted rape and boyfriend-murder to be minor, Max."

"I'm speaking comparatively. What have I lost?" She pauses, "If she's willing to accept it, I'm thinking of offering her a place on the team - even if only as an apprentice. Terra Nova doesn't have room for people to be unemployed - she needs a job, and she's as much a victim of Mike as I was. Besides, it might help to lay his ghost." Yseult looks up at Pete again, "D'you know what Mike said to me? That he was _pleased_ when Niall died; he called it the best day of his life."

"Jesus - that's beyond sick. I'm glad he's gone - you deserve better."

"I _have_ better, Pete. I have Malcolm." She sips at her coffee, "Blast - it's cold, and it was so nice, too. Come on. We've got some more people starting today. I'm hoping that one of them can take over as my assistant; I can't run that blast furnace on my own."

Most of Mira's group - Yseult refuses to use the term 'Sixers' any longer - have been assimilating into her teams over the last couple of weeks, two working with Geoff as part of a new 'engineering' team as they have the requisite skills, but the rest currently taking on labouring work as they get to know their colleagues prior to possible internships. The remainder of the group have been recovering from some nasty infection they acquired in the forests prior to arrival, while one of the three survivors of the Phoenix soldiers has also been assigned to Sustainable Industries for her to rehome.

Whereas Mike had once been her _de facto_ second in command, his demise has promoted Pete into that place, so he joins her as she heads out into the yard to greet the new arrivals.

In less than fifteen minutes, most have been assigned to the labouring teams, while one enormous specimen by the name of Ben, who has metalworking skills, stands nearby to discuss the blast furnace, and the lone soldier, a solidly built young man from Ohio by the name of Louis, offers nothing of use but a willingness to find something to do. Being a soldier, he has few skills of a practical bent; but Pete needs someone to help him with the coppicing - something that doesn't require a ten-year apprenticeship to learn - and they could do with another collier. Before lunchtime, the two of them have headed off to the forest to discuss the delicate art of hacking wood, and Yseult is cycling back to the main compound to join Malcolm for lunch.

* * *

Perusing results on her plex, Maddy looks up to see that Malcolm is sitting at his desk in his 'proper' office, looking off into space again. In the two weeks he's been back at work full time, he's been inclined to drift off on occasions, though the staff who don't regard him with annoyance tend to take it in turns to find a pretext to go into his office to bring him out of his contemplations without looking too overt about it. Looks like it's her turn, then.

She hasn't had much in the way of details over what's happened to her boss over the last few weeks. All she knows is that bad things happened, and he nearly lost his life several times in frighteningly short succession. Dad won't tell her anything more than that - not that she's asked for such details as she knows it's not her business - but she hasn't forgotten that moment she saw the dead scorpion, and fled desperately home to summon her parents to save him.

Being unable to take a formal doctorate, she is instead preparing to embark upon a research project of a suitable calibre to achieve one, under his supervision, and her internship has become a full time job. The search for an antivenin has largely fallen into abeyance, as there just doesn't seem to be any way to negate the effects of the venom. Thus, she has turned to the ongoing development and refinement of the analgesic compounds that she has identified instead. While the initial compounds she researched proved to have potential side effects during the final workups prior to clinical testing; if the results on her plex are anything to go by, they'll be able to synthesise a proper test version of the latest compound as early as next week. Once that's done, she can concentrate on developing a potential antibiotic from one of the yeasts that the late Rob Stanley was growing.

"Malcolm?" she stands in the open doorway, waiting for him to come back from wherever he is. It only takes him a minute or so, and he turns to look at her, "Maddy - sorry: miles away. What can I do for you?"

He looks thinner than he did when she saw him last; a little pale, too - now that the redness from exposure to the sun out in the Badlands has faded. The rumours that circulate are likely to be utter rubbish, but still, there is no getting away from the fact that he suffered a great deal, and is still recovering. Smiling, she holds out her plex - at least she has something to distract him for a bit, "I've got some good results from the latest batch. I think we could be getting somewhere with the first of the analgesics."

As it always seems to do, the prospect of reviewing successful outcomes brightens him considerably, and he reaches out to take the offered plex with real interest, "That's great, I think you were pretty disappointed when the first lot didn't pan out, weren't you?"

She nods, and he smiles - currently something of a rare thing - before checking through the formulae she has presented.

"You're right." He approves, "These look very promising indeed. When are you going to start the preparatory work to assemble the compound for synthesis?"

"After lunch." Maddy looks up to see Yseult approaching, "Talking of which…"

The moment his eyes rest upon her, his face seems almost to light up; there's no missing what she means to him - no missing it at all. As she shares something of that wonderment every time she sees her fiancé, Maddy completely understands his joy at seeing the woman he loves, and fetches back her plex as he rises from the table to greet Yseult. She doesn't even mind that he seems to have completely forgotten she's there, though Yseult waves briefly to her before they depart.

Returning her plex to her workstation, she logs off, and heads out to find her mother. She does, after all, have a wedding to plan.

* * *

There are no cartons today. Since Yseult is a very capable cook, she has largely taken over Malcolm's kitchen; and suddenly he has stocks of ingredients in his cupboard and fridge instead of assembled meals provided by one of the market vendors. Thus the salad has been prepared at home, and they are washing dishes rather than putting cartons into the disposal.

"I think I've got a budding romance amidst the coppices." Yseult says, as she washes a plate and sets it on the draining board, "Pete and Louis have really hit it off - it seems that he was having to conceal his sexuality as much as Pete used to have to. They only met this morning, and the pair of them are already thick as thieves."

Malcolm smiles beside her, "I'm glad about that. Pete's been a great friend to you; besides, he's the only one of your lot that never called me 'Captain Khaki'." He pauses, as she goes a little stiff beside him, then looks worried, "God, I'm sorry Max - I was just kidding; I never meant to…"

"No - I know…it's just, _he_ coined that name - and he did it because he hated you. No one uses it anymore." She turns and snuggles against him, "Besides, he can't hurt us now unless we let him, and I don't intend to."

Without thinking about it, he enfolds his arms about her. It's the same for him - Rob Stanley is gone, so is Lucas Taylor. He's been to the grave, and made it very clear to the corpse rotting within it that enough is enough. The pair of them can only hurt him now if he lets them. The trouble is, he's having a hell of a lot of difficulty with the 'not letting them' part of that statement.

At least that knife is back in the kitchen drawer where it belongs. He still has the nightmare now and again - less so these days - but when he fights out of it, she's beside him, and he no longer searches the floor for scorpions when he wakes. She might well go to her own house during the day when she needs to, but she always spends the night with him - something for which he is more grateful than he can express.

It's not just that she comforts him when he has the nightmare - but that moment of waking in the morning to feel her close by; those times during the day when she almost unconsciously rests her hands on his arm, or his leg, purely because he's there and she likes that sense of tactile contact. When they sit in the weekly briefing, her right hand may have a stylus to record notes on her plex, but her left hand is usually on his thigh. The Shannons probably know she's doing it, and perhaps even Taylor does, too; but they don't comment.

There's only one change since that incident at the forge; she no longer sleeps naked in his bed, nor has she been able to accept his hands close to her most intimate areas. She never used to mind him seeing her without clothing; there was a time when she would startle the hell out of him with her almost casual nudity in his presence - but no longer. Regardless of her comment about not allowing Mike's attempted attack to impact upon her life, it's destroyed her unselfconsciousness, and no matter how much she reaches out to him, his hands are permitted so far, and no further. Sexual contact is, to use a cliché, thoroughly _verboten_ for the time being. Without her express consent, however, he has no wish to push it: she'll accept him when she's ready.

Lunching only takes a short part of the hour that they take together; the rest of it spent sitting together on the couch, "I'll make some tea - leave those dishes, I'll finish them." He ushers her to the couch, and she smiles at him. No - while she can't accept that final step in terms of intimacy, she hasn't stopped loving him - he can see that - and he has no intention of spoiling it through impatience. She's far too precious to him to do that.

It takes him no more than five minutes to clear the rest of the dishes, and they are soon together on the couch, drinking tea and just revelling in their closeness. How the hell did he manage to live without this? A house empty of anything but scientific papers - and he thought that he was content…

Yseult shifts slightly alongside him, "Malcolm, do you love me?"

His eyes widen, "Of course I do - absolutely and completely. I probably don't say it enough, so maybe I should."

"Mike said he loved me." She murmurs, darkly.

"He didn't love you, Max. What he felt wasn't love - it can't have been. No one can claim that they love someone, and then attack them. If they do, then they're liars, or they haven't the first idea what love is."

"And you do?"

He looks at her, bemused at her question, "I can't claim to have a definitive explanation for it, but I remember how my parents loved each other. It's hazy - but they were a team, and they trusted each other absolutely, and they had such a deep friendship with one another. And, the one thing that's never gone away for me is knowing that they loved me. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket; having that torn away when I was ten is something that I've had to try very hard to stop from overshadowing it. I haven't always managed to - but if we have even a fraction of what they had, then I know it's for real."

"I must sound horrible - but…I'm finding it hard to differentiate between what Mike thought love was, and what I thought it was. He was convinced I'd led him on; but I can't work out how I did."

"That's because you didn't. Mike created a construct and let it dominate him. Rob Stanley did the exact same thing with me: nothing I said made any difference - he blamed me for his sister's suicide, and it drove him to spend a year preparing to kill me. In Lucas's case it was a bit different. He did the same thing, but his construct was focused on his father. He saw me as just a means to an end: a valuable commodity."

"I think that must be how Mike saw me, in a way." Yseult muses, "It's as though he'd put me on a pedestal - and, he had me on the floor, he couldn't shatter that awe by actually touching me; well, not at first, anyway. I imagine that would've changed if he'd got my gear off, but you intervened before it got that far." She shudders, "I just can't get past that. You must be so fed up with me but, every time I undress before bed, I can see him looking at me, his eyes just rabid with this weird combination of worship and lust. I stopped being a woman, and became an object."

He holds her close, "I promise you, Yseult Maxwell, that I will never, ever, touch you without your consent. Nothing gives me the right to do that - my uncle made it very clear to me, and so did my House Master at Harrow."

"Your House Master?" she looks bemused.

He nods, "It was a ridiculously macho society in the school at that time - but he refused to allow us to think of women in that way, nor did our Matron. I think our House was probably the only one that did it - there were two very nasty incidents in other Houses while I was there - and lesser ones in all the others. It stood me in good stead for my move to the US; if I'd arrived at Northeastern with _that_ attitude, I would've been sacked in less than a year." His eyes rest on her again, "So believe me when I tell you: you're _not_ an object, and you're _not_ mine to do with as I please. Anything we do as a couple, we do together. Except for presents and surprise parties."

Yseult turns to him, her eyes intent, and a little damp, "That's your promise?"

"That's my promise: nothing without your consent."

Sitting astride his legs, she lifts her t-shirt over her head, then unhooks her bra and shrugs out of it, "Then this is my consent. Touch me - make love to me. Here and now. I've had enough of being an object: I want to feel like a woman again."

Malcolm says nothing, but reaches out to draw her close.

* * *

Pete looks up as Yseult comes into the commandeered office, "I was going to say 'you're late', but I've seen that blissed out look before."

"Shut up, Pete." She reddens, but there's no mistaking her happiness.

"Good, was it?" he grins, "What was it you were saying? 'Shut up?'"

"That's what I was saying."

"Then I'll shut up."

"Do." But then she smiles and clasps him into a hug, "God, I'm so happy, Pete! I can't tell you!"

"Just as well you can't, madam. That's a confidence _way_ too far." He looks at her for a while, "It's good to see you like this again, Max. He really does make you happy, doesn't he?"

She nods.

Disengaging from the hug, Pete fetches the office plex, "This'll make you happy, too. Geoff's sent a message about the loom - it's looking pretty good."

She grabs the device and reads the message, "It certainly is." She gives him a quick peck on the cheek, "Thanks Pete. You're a fantastic friend."

"Like I always say, love. As long as that's _all_ I am."

* * *

The loom rattles busily, the shuttle being fired back and forth at remarkable speed. For all people's reliance upon engines, the power of water is something that everyone's forgotten - and it's only now that it's being rediscovered; but then, the number of people the loom has to serve is considerably smaller.

Geoff, a slight man with short brown hair and a bit of a short-sighted squint, is looking over the mechanism with approval, as Ninette, their head weaver, watches the developing cloth with an expert eye. She's used to using a manual loom, and she's extremely good at it, but it's too slow to serve the colony, and they need the fabric they're weaving rather more quickly. The cloth that she's creating on her hand loom is for the same project, and it will have the artisan touch that the forthright Frenchwoman prefers alongside the altogether more manufactured appearance of the cotton that is being created at ten times the speed.

"How's it going?" Yseult asks him over the clatter of the shuttle.

"Really well, Max." Geoff advises, "The pieces fitted together brilliantly, and the mechanism's sound. Whoever designed the original loom really knew what they were about. This is doing a great job."

"I can do better." Ninette calls across, though she smiles as she speaks. While her English is also fluent, unlike Yseult she has never lost her accent. But then, it seems to suit her magnificently Gallic temperament.

"How long before we have a suitable quantity?"

"I would say, another three hours." Ninette estimates, "I want to 'ave more than is needed, to decorate the orchard."

Yseult smiles - she'd forgotten that in the midst of all that has happened over the last few weeks. With no really fine, 'romantic' space in the colony to celebrate a wedding, someone suggested the Orchard and the idea stuck. Thus two plans have been set in motion, the one that they want to implement, and one that would do as an alternative if the weather doesn't cooperate. While a lot of the artisans who came through with construction and science staff have been keen to volunteer, someone was needed to coordinate it, and it seems that Ninette has stepped up to that particular plate. Someone's already on standby to make Maddy's wedding dress - the problem has been providing her with fabric to make it. Now, at long last, Geoff and Ninette have, between them, solved it.

"Are you better today?" Ninette asks her, stepping away from the loom. They all know what Mike tried to do.

"Much."

"You are 'appy with Malcolm - I can see it. 'E is a good man - it's obvious that 'e cherishes you."

"As much as I cherish him, Ninette." She accepts the weaver's proffered hug.

"Make sure 'e asks you to marry 'im as soon as possible. I want more practice with the loom."

Her eyes widen, "We haven't discussed marriage yet - it's not something that we've even thought about. It's a bit soon after what's happened."

Ninette smiles at her, "Discuss it. Soon. I expect to make more cotton for _your_ wedding dress."

"Okay! I'll think about it!" Yseult laughs at her intent expression, "Let me know when you've got the cloth ready - I'll let Elisabeth know so she'll be expecting you to drop it off. I'm not taking the credit for your work."

"Who is making the dress?"

"Jacinta Costa - Alfredo's wife, the guy in construction."

Ninette nods approvingly, "She's a good choice. I'll talk with 'er about the properties of the fabric to make sure there are no mis'aps."

"I'll leave that to you, I think. I'm rubbish with fabrics - if it can't be heated or hammered, then I'm pretty useless."

"Says the woman who built the loom." Geoff calls across, having heard her comment, then he looks across at her, "Aren't you meant to be building an arbour, or something?"

"Only the support poles. Judith's weaving the arch out of oak withies from the coppices. I think everyone's gone a bit potty - but how often do we get the chance to have weddings around here?"

She smiles as they return to their work. The way things are going, this is likely to be the wedding of the Eon, never mind the decade.


	29. Mr and Mrs Reynolds

**A/N** : A happy interlude featuring Mark and Maddy getting hitched...

* * *

Chapter Twenty Nine

 _Mr and Mrs Reynolds_

The weather forecast for the entire week has been excellent, and - to everyone's relief, particularly the Meteo-team's - accurate. With such an excited build-up, Carol, the head Meteorologist, has been feeling the pressure extensively, and has put up rather more radiosondes than usual. With the hot weather starting to abate, the risk of unexpected thunderstorms blowing up has receded, and the current run of high pressure is very welcome for more reasons than just the harvest.

With the need to keep numbers manageable, the only member of the team of people who are working to make the event spectacular who will be attending the actual ceremony as a guest is Yseult, partly because she is now part of the Shannons' circle of friends, and partly because - thanks to Elisabeth's determined promptings of a mildly refusenik Jim and several rather-more-convivial-than-expected dinners - that circle has widened slightly to include Malcolm, so even if she had not been specifically invited with him, she would have attended as his 'and guest'.

"Do you want me to help at all?" Malcolm asks as they share a plate of toast for breakfast, "I should warn you that my abilities extend to chemistry and no further - but I'm happy to come and get in everyone's way while I pretend to be efficient and in charge."

She smiles at him; he's not had the nightmare for several nights now, and the uninterrupted sleep is doing him the world of good. The weight he lost has been restored, and his colour has settled from that mottled combination of sunburn and a rather wan paleness caused by his exhaustion, stress and lack of food. Maddy has reported to her that his periods of distraction in the labs are growing fewer as well. It seems that he is really starting to recover his shattered equilibrium. Her own recovery is more or less complete - it must be: she freaked him out first thing this morning by emerging from the ensuite after her shower with nothing on. It's been weeks since she lost that sense of unselfconsciousness - and this morning was the first time she felt safe to embrace it again.

Not that she'll be attending the wedding so attired - or not. To her surprise, Ninette has presented her with a rather lovely cotton dress that's been rendered surprisingly fine shade of pale green using natural vegetable dyes, for which one of the cobblers has made a matching pair of shoes. It seems that they made rather more fabric than she and Geoff were letting on - and, as Pete put it, they wanted her to know how important she is to them. That, however, will be worn later - the work in the orchard requires the more usual cotton jersey top and cargo pants.

"Much as I would love to have you around while I'm working, I think you've probably got better things to do. We should be done by half past ten, so I'll be back then for breather, and a shower. Carol mentioned it would be quite warm today, so I suspect I'll need one." She looks at him, archly, "If you're _really_ good, I might even let you join me."

"I like the sound of that offer." He gathers the crockery as she fetches out her boots, "I'll see you later."

She is not surprised to find Jim hovering as Ninette organises the troops, "Aren't you in charge, Max?"

"Not today. Ninette's the one with the eye for design and decoration - I'm just here to attach things to other things." She frowns, humorously, "Has Elisabeth thrown you out for the morning?"

He looks rather sheepish, "It was getting a bit girly in there. Josh has taken refuge in the bar - but we'll be getting changed at Deborah Tate's place; I'm banned from seeing the dress."

"I bet Elisabeth thinks you'll cry."

"She's probably right." He admits, suddenly sounding rather despondent.

"If it's any consolation, Jim," Yseult smiles, "My dad did the exact same thing when I married Niall. I think it's the same for all fathers when their little girls suddenly turn into brides - and it seems to come from nowhere. Come on - I need to get the supports for the arbour ready, or Judith won't be happy with me in the slightest. Do you want to give me a hand?"

"There's an _arbour_?"

"Did I mention that everyone's very excited that we're having a wedding?"

"I don't think you need to." Jim admits, looking around as swags drape across the open ground set out for the ceremony, while chairs are carefully decorated with artfully arranged foliage. Most of the apples have been harvested, but the leaves are still a rich green, and cast dappled shade across the space that dances in the breeze, "I had no idea that Maddy was so popular."

"It's a 'we all like the Shannons' thing, I think. That and this is the first wedding we've had, so everyone wanted to go a bit potty."

"Potty?"

"Sorry - one of Niall's favourite Britishisms. It means 'nuts' or 'crazy' - but in a fun way."

He smirks, "I think I'll keep that one for future use. It'll annoy Mira when we're on patrol."

"How are you two working out as a working partnership?" Yseult asks, intrigued.

"Let's just say it's something of an event, shall we?" Jim grins at her, "It's certainly never dull. I can't push her buttons the way I can with Malcolm. I don't think she's capable of being ruffled."

By the time the teams have finished, the clearing in the Orchard has the romantic air that Ninette was aiming for, and, she hopes, will charm Maddy when she arrives - not having seen it, or even the plans. As far as she's aware, it's just a few rows of chairs among the trees.

"What do you reckon she'll think?" Yseult asks Jim as they view the results.

"I think she'll be blown away." He admits, taking it in.

"Me too."

"D'you reckon they'll do something like this for your wedding?" he asks.

"Mine? We haven't even thought about that, Jim. I think we're too busy just rediscovering being a couple to worry about the stress of organising something."

"Okay - I think we're hovering on the edge of 'too much information' there."

"You did ask." She smiles at him sweetly.

* * *

"Where's Dad?" Maddy calls through from the main bedroom, where the wife of one of the Joiners is currently arranging her hair.

"As far away from here as possible." Elisabeth calls back, "He was getting rather too nervous. I sent him out to investigate the orchard."

Zoe sits in the room she would normally share with her big sister, solemnly reading the instructions she has insisted on being granted to make sure she plays her part to perfection. Much as she is looking forward to having a room of her own when Maddy leaves, she also doesn't really want her big sister to go. Going over the order of service is a handy way of not thinking about it.

Her hair has been arranged with some rather pretty fabric flowers, and her dress is a lovely shade of pale pink. Despite having several friends her own age, Maddy has opted not to cause friction amongst them by trying to have them all as bridesmaids. They'll be attending as guests, while Zoe does the honours solo.

Elisabeth pops her head around the door, "Maddy's nearly ready, Zoe. Do you want to see her dress?"

She looks despondent, and sets her plex aside. Guessing the problem, Elisabeth comes in and sits on the bed beside her, "She's not going far, Zoe - she'll just be a short walk away in another part of the colony."

"I'm going to miss her, Mom." She's just reaching an age where 'Mommy' is considered to be too babyish for her sensibilities.

"I know, sweetheart. We all are - just like we'll miss you one day when you get married. We all grow up, and we all find new families. It doesn't mean we lose our old ones - just that they grow bigger with new people in them. And it's not as though Mark's a nasty person - he dotes on you, doesn't he?"

She nods.

"Come on." Elisabeth stands and extends her hand to her youngest child, "Let's go and see Maddy's dress."

There are few patrons in the bar, as most are busy at work, or discussing the day's big event. Sal has offered to come in and mind the shop while he and Skye are at the wedding, and she's taking the opportunity to prepare the bar for the wedding breakfast, as she and a few of her fellow vendors are catering. Tonight's party will be outside in the marketplace.

"You coming?" Skye asks, as they're running a little short of time for getting changed. Mark, naturally, is at Dunham's place - though it's unlikely that he'll be overly partied out. It's not like they have the alcohol to get him into the sort of embarrassing situations that groomsmen are supposed to inflict upon the groom to be. The cider isn't ready yet, but Julia, the Colony's enthusiastic vintner, has provided a rather good plum wine that will be reserved for the toasts. When she gets it right, the results can be spectacular. Given that she'll try making wine out of practically anything, however, one can never guarantee the quality of the vintage.

Looking about the bar, which Sal is still in the process of prepping, he realises that he's just going to have to take it on trust, and follows Skye out.

Sitting at the dressing table, drying her hair, Yseult watches surreptitiously in the mirror as Malcolm changes his shirt. To her mind, he is always at his most attractive when he doesn't know she's watching him; something in the way that his expression relaxes, a sense of being at ease. She can see - to a limited degree - what he's really thinking. Much as she loved Niall, and their emotional closeness was something she treasured, he was always uncomfortable with the more tactile elements of her personality, and she had learned that not everyone appreciates it when they are touched. He'd never grown up with it, and it was easier to suppress her natural need to reach out, than to encourage him to accept it. There was always that slight tension; but then his parents had not had the easiest of marriages, maybe that's where it came from. It's only now that it is particularly apparent to her, thanks to its absence from her relationship with Malcolm. Niall would _never_ have joined her in the shower; that's a given.

"What's on your mind?" Malcolm has noticed that she's not concentrating on her hair.

"Just reflecting on how utterly handsome you are." She smiles back.

He comes over to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders, "Hmm. Flattery - are you angling for something?"

"Nothing that we've got enough time for," she laughs, "I haven't got time to get back in the shower, and neither have you."

"That's a good point. I might appreciate you in your underwear, but I don't think it'll go down well with the other guests. You finish getting ready - I'll see if there's anything decent to drink in the fridge - or would you prefer something hot?"

"Is that one of your bizarre English _double entendres_?" she asks, archly.

He sighs, theatrically, "I walked right into that one."

"You certainly did."

* * *

"God, this thing's choking me." Jim grumbles as Deborah helps him with the first tie he's worn in years, "Why the hell did we invent these things?"

"Just be grateful it's not a corset." Skye calls across, as Josh similarly struggles, "You think being strangled is an issue? Try being crushed."

The sound of a knock on the door sends her hurrying across, and she opens it to find Commander Taylor outside, "Elisabeth's sent me to escort the Father of the Bride back to his house." He says, with comical gravity, "I have a weapon handy if he's nervous."

He looks remarkably odd, being dressed in something akin to a suit rather than his more usual military style fatigues - but he's attending solely as a guest, so he has no wish to spoil things by looking like the soldier he is. He just wishes… _no - don't think that…_

Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Jim heads over to join him, "For the record," he complains, "If I choke to death in this thing, then I officially give you my place as Father of the Bride, and you can do the speech."

They stroll back to Jim's house in companionable silence. In the years that they've worked together since his unexpected arrival in the Colony, they've learned to appreciate each others' strengths - and respect each others' foibles. Taylor is no more a man for pointless conversation than Mira, and Jim has long learned that silence does not come laden with worrisome meaning.

Elisabeth is waiting for them, and Taylor hands him over with a smile before departing for the orchard to join the other guests. Guzman has arrived with one of the flat-bed rhinos, which has also received the attentions of Ninette, and seems to resemble a carnival float - albeit considerably more tasteful in decoration, "Did you think we were going to make Maddy walk to her own wedding?"

Jim stares at it, shaking his head rather dumbly, before Elisabeth takes his hand, "Come on. Come and see your daughter."

* * *

The gathering is not large, but those who are present are those whom the family values the most in the Colony. Everyone else will be welcome later, but now it's friends and soon-to-be-family only.

Shifting uncomfortably in the suit that he has been obliged to wear, Josh looks up as Elisabeth makes her way down the aisle to join him, "Did he cry?" he asks, surreptitiously. Smiling, a little damp-eyed herself, Elisabeth nods, then looks across to Taylor, invited to join them at the front of the assembled congregation.

Some traditions have been left behind in the future, but others have travelled into the past. The Chaplain, wearing his finest white tippet over a sober suit, stands ready to receive the couple, while nearby the Colony's registrar will complete the marriage certificate. Despite the resolutely scientific edge of the entire enterprise, some religious aspects still seem to be almost required at times. Until today, it had been resolutely for funerals - never for a wedding; most of the couples who live in Terra Nova are already married.

Sitting across from Josh and Elisabeth, Mark shuffles uncomfortably. Much as he can't wait to finally formalise his relationship with Maddy, as Commander Taylor decided from the start that long-term relationships should be formalised through some form of ceremony to protect both parties, he has fallen into the traditional Bridegroom stereotype of being nervous; though much of that has come from extensive teasing from his comrades, who have almost entirely convinced him that Dunham, his Best Man, has lost the rings. He tries not to notice his friend occasionally surreptitiously checking his pocket to make sure that they're there.

Music for the occasion is, yet again, being supplied by the folk band. While they do possess a piano, sponsored and dispatched at the insistence of someone who demanded that people should have access to music when they went through to the past, and people who can play it, getting it out to the orchard seemed such a monumental undertaking that Ninette demanded people who could carry their instruments in one hand.

Conversation is quiet, a low hum as people wait for Maddy to arrive. Being a bride, she is, of course, expected to be late; though she seems resolutely determined not to adhere to such traditions, as Guzman delivers them bang on time, and the Chaplain invites the assembled guests to stand. He doesn't invite them to crane over their shoulders to see her - they do that all by themselves.

Her expression a charming mixture of solemnity and excitement, Zoe leads the way, scattering petals as she goes, and does her best to ignore the 'isn't she _adorable?_ ' noises that are coming from the guests. She's getting a bit old for that sort of thing - but she lets it pass. They'll be far too busy gawping at her big sister to bother with cutesy 'ahhs' in a minute.

His expression probably the utter cliché of a 'Proud Father', Jim escorts Maddy into the clearing. Her expression as she sees the work that's been put into the space where she is to marry Mark merely sets off how beautiful she looks. With no access to tulle, or silk, or netting, Jacinta has been obliged to create something out of cotton, and has done a magnificent job. Her dress, white, with a simple neckline and capped sleeves falls in a soft, close fitting bodice to a full tea-length skirt whose pleats have been expertly sewn to flare it out from her hips like a bell. The entire garment is accented here and there with simple lace, courtesy of a hobbyist lacemaker which, while not exactly Honiton or Flanders, sets off the simple, rustic look to a tee. She wears a simple, homespun stole, courtesy of Ninette, in a pale powder blue - lent to her for the occasion, while a beautiful stylised silver butterfly owned by her late grandmother and brought through the portal by her mother, accents her hair. Old, new, borrowed, blue.

Dunham leans closer to Mark's ear as he stares at her, "Whatever you do. Don't faint."

Leaving Maddy beside her husband-to-be, Jim rejoins Elisabeth. While he had always expected this time would come - giving his daughter away in marriage, he had never thought it would be in a clean world, with fresh air and hope for the future. Their chances of getting here would have been less than little, but for a combination of his wife's talent, and the efforts of the man sitting two rows behind them. Much as he resented Malcolm for nearly causing him to be left behind when she came through - not to mention Zoe, he accepts now that there was no intentional malice in the act. Zoe was an illegal child, they kept her secret. How was he to know? He would almost certainly have known that Elisabeth was living as a single mother thanks to his prison sentence, and having lost his own father in such circumstances, perhaps Malcolm did genuinely believe that he, Jim, would not live to come through to the past thanks to the grim conditions at Golad. Not that it matters now - as he has, indirectly, rescued the entire family from a dying, polluted world to what feels, in comparison, like paradise.

The silence as the Chaplain asks if anyone knows of any reason why Mark and Maddy shouldn't be married is a relief, even though it's expected - and everyone laughs, including the Chaplain himself.

The ceremony proceeds without a hitch. No one faints, Dunham has not forgotten the rings, nor does he drop them. Rather than exchange vows, the couple have composed speeches to speak to one another which are simple and affecting in their honesty and lack of mawkishness given their ages, and the applause when the Chaplain proclaims them to be husband and wife is supplemented by whoops, whistles and cheers.

The folk band plays some lively tunes to keep everyone occupied while the newly married couple sign the Colony's register with their witnesses, and Elisabeth clutches Jim's hand tightly, "I can still remember the day she was born. Even though I never lost hope for our old world, I was so afraid that she wouldn't have a happy life. I never dreamed that it _was_ worth hoping - that we _could_ find that happy life."

"I don't care where we are." Jim advises her, softly, "As long as you, Josh, Maddy and Zoe are with me, I'm happy." He looks up at the trees that shade them, "Of course, being here helps a lot with that sentiment."

"I love you, Jim." She says, simply.

"I know. I love you too."

* * *

The happy couple having departed aboard Guzman's gaily decorated rhino, everyone else is obliged to stroll back to the compound on foot, though no one minds - after all, it's not a hardship to walk in a place where no one wears high heels anymore. As they leave, Yseult waves to Pete, who is waiting with a crew to go in and dismantle the decorations so that the wedding arbour can go back to being an orchard again.

As they walk, very close together with their arms about each others' waists, Malcolm notices that people keep casting glances in their direction.

"Why are they doing that?" Yseult asks him, quietly.

"Because they can't believe I'm letting you hold me like this. They think I'm too stuffy and uptight to accept it. Mind you, until I met you, they would probably've been right."

"Wow - and they haven't even seen us kissing."

"Well, some of them did before I went OTG - I imagine _that_ rumour went around like wildfire."

"Stop the presses." She giggles, "Wallace kissed a woman."

"They'll get used to it." He advises, sagely, "I did."

Boylan's has been decorated with streamers and bunting - anything Sal could get her hands on. It clashes like hell, but somehow the riotous effect seems right. The solemnity is done - now the partying can start.

Tom himself is sitting near the entrance, eyeing the scene with his usual veneer of cynicism that doesn't hope to conceal the fact that he's as pleased as anyone else, "Hey, Wallace. You're not allowed in there. The place'll fall in."

Given the standing joke that Malcolm has never, ever, been inside the bar; he neither takes offence nor any notice, "First time for everything, Tom."

"That's _Mister_ Boylan, Professor." He says, though he is grinning as he says it.

"He's with me." Yseult adds, with mock aggression.

"Fair enough. You get a hall pass." He says, pretending to magnanimously wave them in.

Maddy is already circulating, as Brides are obliged to do, moving amongst the tables as people collect drinks and sit down. As both the usual bartenders are guests, one of Sal's friends has taken over the rather unnerving task of reproducing their famous collections of vivid beverages. No one is expecting _haute cuisine_ , but the aromas coming in from the grills are very enticing.

"I love your dress, Max." Elisabeth has come over, a glass of Julia's plum wine in her hand, "Did Ninette make the fabric?"

"She did - and she gave it to me. Something to do with my boundless popularity, apparently."

"Thank you so much for the fabric - please pass my gratitude on to Ninette; I've already seen Jacinta, they worked a miracle between them."

"I will. I'm sorry we didn't have enough time to create enough fabric to make a meringue."

Elisabeth laughs, "I don't think Maddy's a meringue type of girl. She loved that dress just the way it was."

The assembly dine upon a range of grilled vegetables, xiph, gallusaur and - to Jim's disgust - beancurd, all with a range of vividly flavoured - and coloured - sauces specially designed to look utterly obvious if dropped down one's front. With time to spare before Jim and Dunham have to give their dreaded speeches, the Shannon Patriarch makes his own round of the tables, eventually plumping down in a spare seat next to Malcolm while its occupant is chatting to someone else nearby.

"This is your fault, you know." He says, sagely.

"Mine? In what way?"

"I've spent a lot of time resenting you for trying to get back with Elisabeth. Taylor was pretty quick to point out what an ass I was being; but, if you hadn't done what you did, we wouldn't be here, would we?"

"Nice to know that my heinous plan did have some benefits then." He smirks, but then looks more serious, "It was never about trying to get back with Elisabeth. I suppose I had some stupid notion at the back of my mind that, if she needed someone, I'd be there; but, she'd moved on almost before she'd left for London and I figured that out pretty damn quickly. I suppose I wanted her to see her hopes fulfilled. We needed her skills - and I thought she was more or less going to be a single mother. My father died of COPD, and the conditions at Golad were hardly conducive to surviving it."

"Was that who you were talking to when you were in the encampment?"

"Pardon?" Malcolm looks at him, bemused.

"Yeah - you were talking to me, but I think you thought I was your father. You had heatstroke at the time - but…"

He shakes his head, "I'm sorry, I thought you were my father? I don't remember that at all - but it was all a bit of a mess by then, so I might well have been talking to you - but I don't have any memory of doing so."

Jim lets it drop; it's pretty obvious Malcolm isn't pretending he can't remember. He looks around to where Yseult is sitting, picking at the remains of her dessert with a fork in her right hand, her left nowhere to be seen. He leans closer to Malcolm, "Max's hand is on your leg again, isn't it?"

"Yep."

Returning to the 'top' table, so called largely because it's facing all the others, Taylor rises and taps a knife against his glass, "Don't worry. I'm not going to say anything. That's not my job today." He turns to Jim, "I give you the Father of the Bride."

He sits again to claps and cheers as Jim rises to his feet in his turn - ready to face the slowest, and most terrifying, ten minutes of his life.

When he returns to his seat to more applause, he realises he's gone blank, and can't remember a single thing he's just said, "I didn't say anything stupid, did I?" he asks Elisabeth, "Like start reading Miranda rights?"

"No, darling." She pats his hand, "You were just fine."

Dunham manages to pull out a speech that is not too embarrassing, sprinkled with amusing anecdotes, and - most importantly of all - not too long, leaving Mark and Maddy free to use Yseult's harvest festival knife to cut the first cake that's been baked from spelt flour. After a year of tinkering, Graham has finally managed to get it fine enough.

Jim rises to his feet again, "Okay everyone - Sal's going to start chopping the cake up so that everyone can have a piece - but it sounds like the band's ready outside, so feel free to get out there and dance."

As he sits, he gets another round of applause, causing him to hastily get up and pull a gratuitous bow.

"Don't overdo it, Shannon." Taylor growls humorously from nearby, "Wouldn't want to upstage the bride, now, would we?"

* * *

Taylor has, as always, retreated up to his balcony again to watch as the party continues after night has fallen. Those who couldn't attend the wedding itself have shown up in their droves, and it's almost like Harvest Festival, except for the lack of vegetables hanging from strings.

He looks down to see that Jim is making his way up the stairs, and makes room for him, "Hell of a year, Shannon; and it's not even over yet."

Jim nods, "At least our biggest problem is over. No more Sixers on our doorstep, and no Phoenix Group trying to get at us. We can finally get on with making this place work."

Taylor looks across the marketplace to where Yseult is, as always, very, very close to Malcolm, "Maybe this'll persuade Malcolm to propose."

"Who knows? I think it's still a novelty having a girlfriend." Jim quips, then he smiles, "You're not the only one. Maddy's planning on dropping a hint the size of a brachiosaur in a few minutes."

"How?" Taylor looks bemused, then thinks about it, a smile widening across his face, "Ah. That's a mean stunt to pull on the good Doctor. You love yanking Malcolm's chain, Shannon. You're an evil man."

"Yeah - but he makes it so _easy_."

Down in the marketplace, Mark nearby and waiting to escort his bride to their new home, Maddy turns to the assembled women, "Come on - I'm going to throw my bouquet! Who wants to be the next bride?"

She watches as a number of her friends step forth, and Malcolm jokingly pushes Yseult across to join them, she looks at him, and laughs, "What if I catch it?"

"I may just possibly run." He calls back to her, amused.

They gather behind her, almost jockeying for position, as Maddy turns around, and prepares to swing her arms back over her head, "Ready? One…two… _three_!"

The bouquet sails into the air, at which point everyone in the group stands aside, leaving the flowers to land squarely in Yseult's arms, accompanied by a resounding cheer. Despite her laughter, despite the jokes, she stares at the flowers, then turns to Malcolm, who watches her with a soft smile. _I'll do it, Max. When I'm ready - I promise._

Her bouquet thrown, Maddy crosses to join her new husband, and they depart to cheers, applause and huge handfuls of thrown rice.

Her eyes joyful, Yseult carries the flowers over as she rejoins Malcolm, "Unsubtle, I think - but it's nice to know that, when the time comes, we'll have the Colony's permission."

"I wasn't aware that we needed it."

"True, but I'm glad we'll have it, all the same." She looks up at him, "I love you."

"I know you do. If I could find words that would adequately express the same sentiment in your direction, I'd use them. But I can't, so I'll have to just make do with saying I love you too."

"Did that come with a side order of saccharine?"

He doesn't answer, the party forgotten as they share a warm, lingering kiss.


	30. Festival

Chapter Thirty

 _Festival_

Taylor reads the statistics on his plex. Not being given to totalitarianism, he expects honesty from his staff, not ego-massaging; consequently, the results from the fields show the actual yields, which are not as extensive as in previous years.

"Do we know why?" he asks Malcolm, patently ignoring the fact that Yseult is sitting extremely close to him and probably has her hand on his leg again.

"It's largely thanks to the weather, Commander." Malcolm admits, "It's been rather wetter than it's been over the last few years, and the yields have dropped in response to that. It's not as though we've had a failure - there's more than enough to get us through the winter and into next year - but Chris mentioned that it should serve as a warning for future years. Just in case we do have one. He's suggesting some of the botanists conduct surveys of the surrounding forest for potential food sources in the event that we need to look there at any point."

Taylor nods, "Add some of Mira's survival experts to that manifest. They'll have a better idea of what to go for, or not."

"I'll ask her to drop in for a word." Jim advises.

"We've also noticed a drop in the scorpion population." Malcolm continues, "It looks as though the wet weather's clobbered their food sources, so they've died back. We'll retain the interaction protocol though; I think it's best if the field staff continue to wear protective gear. It wasn't possible to isolate an antivenin, so prevention is definitely the way forward."

"I'll second that." Elisabeth agrees, "While it doesn't happen very often, it's frightening for the victim and it takes up a lot of resources to keep them going while they metabolise the venom. It's much better if they don't get stung in the first place."

"How are things at your end of the compound, Max?" For a moment, Taylor wonders if she's distracted, but she doesn't look startled or flustered, so she must've been listening.

"Going very well, Commander." She begins, "The loom's proving to be a great success with the cotton and the flax, though we haven't tried hemp yet. I'm meeting with Connor, one of the chemists, later today to discuss incorporating synthetic fibres with a view to creating some more waterproof materials. At this rate, we'll have sufficient quantities of fabrics for the dressmaking enthusiasts to start work fairly soon - it's taken a bit longer than we planned to get the loom really operating properly - though the spinning jenny's been a huge success. I think everyone's getting a bit tired of the threadbare look, so they'll welcome some clothes stalls in the markets."

"What about shoes?" Elisabeth asks.

"Mira's hunting parties have solved that problem for us. We've been making real progress with tanning gallusaur hides - their skin is incredibly tough and durable, and, as the leather's a by-product of the meat industry - as it were - we're not killing purely for skins. That would be something that I'd prefer to avoid. We still take hides from fresh carrion if it's available - but killing for skins alone is out of the question at this point."

"Tom Boylan wants to know if he can set some land aside to grow barley." Jim adds, "He dropped by my desk this morning."

"Barley?" Taylor asks, "What for - do we even _have_ barley?"

"He wants to try making beer."

"Malcolm?" Taylor looks bemused.

"We've probably got seeds - but I'm not aware it's been grown for a few years. Chris tried it, and it seemed to thrive - but people didn't want to use it. If there's any left, then I don't think Chris would object - though finding some spare ground to grow it might be an issue. We have to put food production first."

"Not only that," Yseult adds, "Where's he going to put his hop garden? You can make beer from other grains - though; so if the barley's a no-go, he can always use spelt - though that's a bit harder to brew."

"Spelt?" Jim asks, intrigued.

"Of course. I'm German, remember? Dinkelbier was my dad's favourite, though he was partial to Emmerbier as well. Both of those are from varieties of spelt. I'll talk to him - given that he's Australian, he probably hasn't the first idea when it comes to proper beer brewing - but don't tell him I said that."

"He certainly didn't with the cider." Jim smirks.

As the meeting breaks up, Yseult hurries after Elisabeth, "Can I have a word - in private?"

The two walk back across to the infirmary, where Elisabeth ushers her into her office, "What can I do for you? Is it Malcolm?"

"No; well, yes - _and_ no." Yseult sits down, and looks a little uncomfortable.

"That doesn't make a lot of sense."

"We're both fine - it's just…we were talking last night, and we decided that we'd like to try for a baby."

Elisabeth smiles, delighted, "That's wonderful! Why do you need to talk to me?"

"I need you to reverse my contraceptive injection."

"Ah, I see." Elisabeth sits down on the other side of the desk, "I can do that today if you like - but you do need to bear in mind that it's not instant - it can take anything from a few weeks to up to a year for the effects to completely subside. You'll also need to speak to Nurse Ogawa about sourcing pads for when you start menstruating again. She looks after the provision of suitable protection."

"Of course. It's been a few years. I hadn't thought about it because I didn't need to."

Elisabeth regards her, "You're sure about this? It's a major commitment - and you're still officially not living with Malcolm, even if you _do_ practically live there full time."

"We're in the process of rectifying that." Yseult smiles, "I've spent the last few days packing boxes - I move into his place tomorrow."

* * *

Malcolm stares at the boxes in bemusement, "I had no idea you had so much stuff."

While the number of boxes is not extensive, as none of the Colonists were able to bring large amounts of personal possessions with them, the fact that he has almost nothing in comparison seems to him to serve as a reminder of how impersonal his life had become even before his arrival in the Cretaceous. Few photographs, no keepsakes or heirlooms - but then, much of what he had treasured as a child had been left behind when his mother and he had fled to Carlisle in search of a train south. After that, he had no wish to retain things of value; they are far too easily lost. For a moment, he feels almost tearful. His entire existence reduced to almost nothing…

"What is it?" Yseult is beside him, her hand gripping his.

"It's nothing. I was just thinking how little I have from my old life compared to you. This place looks so utterly sterile."

"Just wait until you see my fertility goddess. I can guarantee that it's the ugliest thing in the Colony."

He smiles at her, "Sounds ghastly. I can't wait."

Despite his rather facetious comment at the amount of possessions she has brought with her, unpacking the boxes and finding a place for everything takes no more than an hour or so, and he takes in the sudden appearance of artefacts and curios on shelves that previously had been unnoticed, thanks to the lack of items to put on them. Schmidt, of course, now resides on her side of the bed.

"Are these all things that your grandfather found?"

Yseult nods, "I focused far more on experimental archaeology - with things being as they were, people had lost interest in exploring the past. Finding ways of keeping up standards of living while reducing pollution was the order of the day, even though it was a case of shutting the stable door not only after the horse had bolted, but after it had gone fifty miles and shacked up at another farm. He found most of these in the Levant - the area around Syria and Turkey - or at least, he did after the civil wars finally came to an end." She reaches for the fertility goddess, "the weird thing is that, even though these things date back to before the Common Era, we live in a world that predates even the first emergence of humans."

"Until we turned up." Malcolm adds, taking the piece from her, "I see what you mean - it's _phenomenally_ ugly. How on earth would this have promoted fertility?"

"I imagine people would do anything to avoid having to spend time in its company." She smiles, slipping her arms about his waist.

"Is that a hint?"

"Only if you want it to be." Yseult looks up at him, "I spoke to Elisabeth today. She reversed my shot this afternoon. She reckons it'll be a while before I get my cycle back on track - so we have a grace period if you like."

"I wish I could. Except I have a meeting in about ten minutes back at the labs."

"You mean - I'll have to wait until _tonight_?" she asks with feigned horror.

"I'm afraid so. Not all of us have this afternoon off."

"You're the boss, aren't you?"

"Remind me to schedule meetings that don't clash with your newly rampaging hormones." He grins at her, snatching a quick kiss, "Believe me, I'd love to stay, with all the promise of inappropriately mature behaviour that that implies - but Chris has been waiting for this meeting for a fortnight. I can't put it off."

"Ah well. I suppose I'll just have to settle for making you a horrendously clichéd romantic candlelit dinner. Just don't expect that every night - not when I've been hammering iron all afternoon."

"I'd return the compliment - but I suspect you wouldn't survive the experience."

She laughs, "I'm well aware that your competence in the kitchen is in inverse proportion to your competence in the labs. You need to get going or you'll be late."

Alone in the house, Yseult reaches for the last item that she has left unpacked. While Malcolm has never shown any tendency to be truly jealous, she knows that he would struggle with her picture of Niall. She doesn't want to put it on display - he's a part of her past now, after all - but at the same time, she doesn't want to dispose of it. In some ways, she recognises that it was Niall's long shadow that interfered in the first stages of their courting, and kept them both from each other for weeks on end. He also seemed to loom large over them as they began to grow closer, and it was only after Malcolm thought he'd killed their relationship with his freakout over the Sixers that they finally took the next step and consummated it. The one thing she doesn't want - not at all - is for Niall to be a ghostly presence standing foursquare in the way of their route to the altar.

"I want to marry him, Niall." She addresses the bag in which the picture sits, "We were happy together, and I'll always treasure those years; but they're in the past and I'm ready to move on. He hasn't asked yet - but when he does, I'll say yes."

Folding the bag around the picture, she sets it in the bottom of a drawer in the cupboard that now contains her clothes; then looks about, briskly. Now to find something for that horribly clichéd dinner she promised.

* * *

"You look happy, Pete." Yseult looks up from the anvil to see him standing nearby, "I take it things are going well with Louis?"

"Professionally _and_ personally, darling." He grins at her, "Finding totty was not on my list of expectations when I came to live with dinosaurs."

"Just watch yourselves." She advises, "I don't want to have to come and negotiate the outcome of a row between two men who use axes for a living."

Pete leans back against the wall of the forge, "What was really bothering me was whether or not people would accept us. Taylor's a bit of a grizzled old crow, and that tends to imply intolerance in my experience - I wasn't expecting him to go all Mrs Patrick Campbell about us."

"Pardon?"

"You've never heard of her? Blimey."

"German, Pete. German."

"She's one of the people who's supposed to have said _I don't care what they do, so long as they don't do it in the street and frighten the horses_." He speaks the quote in his best 'Lady Bracknell' impersonation.

Yseult laughs, "I think you could apply that as easily to Malcolm and I. I made him drop a plate last night just by talking."

"Go on. Do tell."

"Our first dinner together as a couple - if not a married one - and I decided to go the whole hog and wear that nice green dress that Ninette made for me. We were washing up afterwards, and I told him I wasn't wearing anything under it."

Pete stares at her in feigned shock, "You minx!"

"It worked, so I'm not complaining." She says, with blatantly false primness.

"By the way, have you seen the flyers that are going about?" Pete asks, "Guzman's wife is advertising for people to join a choir."

"Don't look at me: I sing like a gallusaur on helium. Why, are you thinking of joining?"

"Louis might. He's got a fantastic tenor voice."

"He has?"

"Gives him something to do when we're guarding the charcoal burn - it's not like we can do anything else for entertainment with a pile of burning wood to keep under constant watch. She's hoping to get something together for the Harvest Festival." He grins, "They're struggling for a theme this year. Apparently it's 'Renewal' but no one really knows that that means."

"As long as the little ones have something nice to do, I don't suppose it really matters. Tell Louis that if the choir rehearsals clash with working hours, he is strictly forbidden to come to work, okay? It'd be nice if we could get something like that off the ground. Just don't inflict me on it."

* * *

While the summer weather was not as kind as it has been in previous years, the autumn - for want of a better word in a land that seems have no defined seasons other than 'hot' and 'wet' - has been positively balmy, and the lack of brutal weather that often accompanies the season has been quite refreshing, despite the inevitable preparations that take place each year as a precaution. The reduced harvest has, inevitably, meant no gluts, but the Stores Manager, who reports to Chris, is pleased. Flour stocks are high, and the large bins of soybeans promise no shortages of margarine, milk or - to Jim's disgust - beancurd over the coming months.

Jim's working relationship with Mira seems to have settled into something approaching mutual respect. People treat her with immense deference, thanks to her rather intimidating demeanour and her behaviour during the occupation; but even so, Jim can detect that her armour is starting to soften a little - and she is even starting to do the unthinkable: make friends. Remarkably, all of her crew seem to have found a place in the community, and have settled well; though possibly her firm command of them is helping to keep potential squabbles to a minimum.

Their patrols are generally worthwhile, and she has added some innovations of her own to their routines that are helpful - though he has refused to secure office space. To his mind, Boylan's is the place that does the best coffee, and he does, after all, have a cliché to maintain. If nothing else, it gives him the opportunity to surreptitiously observe the ongoing growth of Josh's relationship with Skye. With Maddy now Mrs Reynolds, living elsewhere and working independently, he has to have _someone_ to be an overprotective dad about until Zoe's old enough to start dating.

God, that's something he _really_ doesn't want to think about.

He returns home to find himself in the middle of one of Elisabeth's 'Gourd Painting' parties - still a traditional precursor to the festival for those families with single children. Zoe is, as always, in her element where creativity is concerned, and her decorations are looking increasingly sophisticated these days from the simple zigzags and splodges that were once her forte. No one's noticed his arrival yet, and he watches fondly as his wife and daughter work together on a hollowed out squash, surrounded by the friends she's made. _Does it get any better than this?_

Elisabeth looks up, almost as though she heard his thought, and smiles to see him, "Do you want to help?"

"And interrupt this hive of creativity? I think I'll leave that to the experts." He grins at her, "Is Zoe's costume ready?"

While the theme of the festival is 'renewal', no one could think of anything suitable for the children to do that fitted the theme, until someone came up with a selection of sketches based on _Aesop's Fables_. Thus, this year, Zoe is to play the the Country Mouse - rather a comedown after her grand stage debut as Commander Taylor a few years ago.

Painting complete, Zoe's friends depart, and she sits down with her parents to a hastily assembled dinner. It's strange that the three of them eat alone these days - Josh is at the bar, of course - but the youngest Shannon is nothing if not adaptable, and she is both grateful for, and irked by, her parents' undivided attention.

"It's strange." Elisabeth murmurs as they rest on the couch after Zoe has gone to bed, "I think this is the first time it's really sunk in with me that there's nothing for us to worry about at this festival. No mystery, no danger, no threats hanging over our heads. Just a community of people making their way in a new world."

Jim nods, tightening his arms around her, "I never thought this day would come. After the soldiers disappeared into the Badlands, it was always going to be a waiting game for them to come back - but we were saved by Lucas's obsession with his father. If he'd been more rational about it, things could've been a whole lot different."

"And now that threat's gone. I wish it could've been less destructive, and fewer lives could've been lost - but it's over."

"Just you, and me, and the kids." Jim smiles leaning in for a kiss, "Heaven on earth. Whatever earth this is."

A soft knock on the door surprises them both. Bemused, Jim answers it, and finds Maddy and Mark outside, "Hey, you don't need to knock. Come in."

Elisabeth looks up at them, her eyes a little narrowed, "What is it?"

"It's okay, Mom," Maddy looks tearful, "We've got some good news for you."

* * *

Malcolm cries out sharply, his arms lashing as he forces himself awake. He is in darkness, but not for long, as there is sudden light and a gentle voice in his ear, "It's alright - it was a dream. You're awake now."

Shaking, sweating, he turns and sees Yseult, "I'm sorry," he says, a little breathlessly, "It's been a while…"

"The scorpions again?"

He nods, closing his eyes painfully as she snuggles against him, "It's okay - you don't have to deal with it alone anymore."

"I know." Already his arms are tight around her, "I just wish this would go away, Max. It's irrational - Lucas is gone, I don't know why I still hold him in such dread…"

"He was cruel to you. It can be hard to let that go."

They lie together in silence as his breathing calms, and he relaxes again. The dream is rare these days, yes, but he still has it from time to time. At least now he doesn't wake alone.

She's already asleep again, her head on his chest. So comforting is that sense of closeness, that it is not long before he joins her.

* * *

The day of the festival dawns bright and clear as Jim takes his habitual morning run. The work last night to prepare the marketplace has included the building of a much larger stage than previously, as Guzman's wife, Sandra, has had rather more success in attracting choristers than she was expecting. Mira does not join him on his run this morning; but he understands why: she finds it hard to be part of a ceremony where the lead is taken by the Colony's children, given that her daughter is cut off from her, and they will never meet again. They've already agreed that she will not emerge from her house today - and he has told everyone that she's too busy with work to attend the festival. Her appreciation for his understanding, and his assistance in concealing the issue, was rendered in one of her rare, slight smiles. In deference to her situation, he has chosen not to share the news he received last night; though he is barely able to stop himself howling it from the rooftops.

The morning is, as always, a frenzy of last minute preparation. The children are being fitted with their costumes, and getting their last opportunities to check stage directions. No one has any idea what's happening with the promised choir, as they've been sworn to secrecy, and their rehearsals have been largely off limits to non-members. That is something that will be revealed this evening.

The stallholders are already clearing away, while the food vendors set up to one side of the space, as they always do. Watching from his balcony, Taylor views the beavering with a slightly bittersweet smile. His visit to Wash's grave this morning was peaceful, and he brought her up to speed on what has happened, as he always does.

Amongst the assembling crowd Pete is already lurking near Sal's grill, as lunchtime is approaching and he's been busy in the coppices all day collecting suitable wood to season for future charcoal burns. As promised, Louis is singing this evening, so even if no one else is interested, the entire Sustainable Industries department will be attending. Graham is also nearby, helping to arrange another harvest loaf - the last one being such a success that he is now expected to provide one every year, while Yseult and Ben are draping additional strings of gourds to supplement the ones that were put up last night.

He looks up as she joins him, "On your own, sweetheart?"

"Only for a bit longer. Malcolm's given himself the afternoon off. We'll see what Sal's got on her stall for lunch, I think." She sighs, "He had a nightmare last night. The first for weeks."

"Give it time, Max. These things don't go away overnight." He frowns as she pulls a face, "What's up?"

"It's okay. Something girl-related. I'd forgotten that it can be uncomfortable. Elisabeth gave me some analgesics in case this happened."

"Ah." Even for someone as resolutely cosmopolitan as Pete, the concept of menstruation is awkward, "Why put up with it when you don't have to?"

"I _do_ have to, Pete - how else am I going to get pregnant?"

"Good point." He is aware of her hopes.

Sal looks across at her, having overheard the comment about getting pregnant and deducing the reason for it, "I find a hot water bottle helps."

"So Elisabeth mentioned - but it's a bit public here. I'll bear it in mind later."

"I have to say," Sal grins, "Your boyfriend's timing's impeccable - my first lot of steaks are ready and he turns up." She nods across the marketplace to where Malcolm is approaching at a slow, leisurely stroll. His pace quickens as soon as he spots them.

"I've got him well trained." Yseult smiles.

"Thank you all for coming." Taylor looks a little bit uncomfortable at having to open proceedings as he usually only makes a speech at the end, "I've been told that the festival this year is going to be something a bit special, so I won't stay here too long." He looks around at the assembled throng, "This is probably the first year where we've truly been on our own. While we have no more people coming through to join us, we also have no one coming to take it all away from us either. This really is, I think, the dawn of a new era for Terra Nova, and we're all pioneers together - which is, in my mind, a real renewal. I don't doubt that I'll be up here again at the end of the evening, so I'll get off this stage and let the kids do a better job of entertaining you." He departs to applause, and not a few cheers.

Jim has joined Elisabeth, who has a small piece of paper upon which is printed a programme of sorts, "What are we getting?"

"Four of Aesop's fables. They've gone for stories that have some significance in their morals."

While the stories are, allegedly, ageless, they are mostly unfamiliar to Jim; but, as they're all in English, he can't miss the narrative. The first story is _The Ant and the Grasshopper_ , and a group of youngsters tell the tale of the industrious ants who beaver away to store up against hard times, while the grasshopper laughs at them, until he finds himself without food in the winter. Despite it not being meant to be read that way, he is irresistibly reminded of the respective fates of the Colonists, and the Phoenix Group; they threw away the only means they had of being prepared for lean times - and died for it. At least the kids won't see it that way.

The next tale is one that he knows: _The Hare and the Tortoise_. The meaning as famous as the story, the assembled crowd watch the slow, determined onward march of the tortoise, that eventually beats the overconfident, slapdash hare - a warning against trying to do too much, too fast, perhaps.

It seems likely that the third tale is aimed at their most recent arrivals, being _The Mouse and the Lion_ , relating the story of a lion that allows a mouse it has pinned with its paw to go free, only for that mouse to come to his rescue when captured by hunters. No matter how small a friend, the friendship should never be discounted as it could be the greatest help of all in adversity.

Then they sit up together, pleased as punch for Zoe, who plays the role of the Country Mouse in _The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse_ , which values the simplicity of plain living over the risks of chasing too much ease and comfort. Rather sledgehammer-like in its unsubtle approach, perhaps, but it goes a long way to reflect to those in the marketplace the value of their lives here, compared to their previous lives in a polluted, dying wasteland.

After the bows and applause, people drift away to socialise while the evening draws in. Sitting with Elisabeth, Jim looks up to see Taylor, "I hear you had some good news last night."

"We certainly did, Commander." Elisabeth smiles, happily, "Though I think we're rather shocked at the same time - I thought I was a bit young for that."

"I hope you don't mind, but Mr and Mrs Reynolds have asked me to announce it at the end of the evening?"

Jim looks startled, but Elisabeth covers for him with aplomb, "That sounds like a wonderful way to do it - though I must admit, I'm surprised that I didn't find out sooner. They asked one of my colleagues to deal with the matter."

"Very sneaky." Taylor smiles, "Congratulations to you both. I'm looking forward to the excitement the announcement's going to cause tonight."

* * *

"Right, you two." Pete sounds worryingly businesslike, "It's all supposed to be hush-hush, but Louis is a complete no hoper when it comes to keeping secrets, so I expect you to join in."

"Join in with what?" Malcolm asks, warily.

" _Jerusalem_."

"Excuse me?"

"They're going to finish with Parry's _Jerusalem,_ which is the unofficial English National Anthem, is it not?"

"It is?" Yseult asks, then smiles at Pete's glare, "German, Pete. Remember? This is the second time I've had to remind you in as many weeks."

"I'm getting all the English folk," he pauses and looks at Yseult, "and all the _honorary_ English folk, together to stand up and join in. Swaying, arms on each others' shoulders: the whole shooting match. Let's get a bit of a Last Night of the Proms vibe."

"You used to watch the Last Night of the Proms?" Yseult asks.

"Well - the second half." He admits.

"I don't know _Jerusalem_ ," Malcolm begins.

"Don't give me that - you went to Harrow." Pete interrupts, breezily.

He sighs, "Fair enough. You'll regret it, though. If you think Max sings badly, you haven't heard me. Singing is another of the many non-science things that I can't do."

"Who said anything about singing? This is a patriotic outburst. Singing doesn't come into it." Grinning, he heads off in search of anyone else who fits his rather wide description of 'English'.

"At what point do I tell him I'm a member of Clan Wallace?" Malcolm murmurs.

"Seriously?" Yseult turns to him - although she knows he was born a Scot, she had no idea he was a member of an actual Clan.

"Same one as William Wallace. Who _isn't_ an ancestor." He pauses, as though thinking whether or not to admit to something, "My father used to call me 'Braveheart' after that film."

"He did? That's lovely."

He nods, though he looks a little sad, "He called me that the day they took him away: _Look after your Mam, Braveheart. I'll be back before you know it._ I never saw him again."

She says nothing, but instead rests her head on his shoulder and holds his hand tightly.

"I love you." He murmurs, softly.

As people gather for the debut of the choir, the most surprising thing about it is its sheer size. While the number of colonists is bordering on a thousand, no one expected eighty people to turn up, least of all Sandra. The Colony's lone piano has been lugged out onto the stage, and, to the surprise of those who don't know that more than one person can play a keyboard at the same time, both of the two pianists who came through the portal are taking seats at it.

The programme isn't long - as there wasn't really enough time to do something on a grander scale - and the lack of an orchestra has been compensated for by some carefully put together four-hand duets on the piano that do a remarkable job of covering for the shortage of other musicians.

"What are they starting with?" Yseult asks Pete, who is, as promised, sitting with them, having rounded up the small English contingent.

"Something by Vivaldi?" he hazards, having forgotten the other works in his zeal to track down people to join in with _Jerusalem_.

She nods as the piano starts up, "So it is. It's the _Gloria_."

They stick to just the opening, tackling it with gusto, and surprising accuracy after so few rehearsals, before moving on to a more complicated work: Parry's _I Was Glad_. This is then followed by _Nothing is Here for Tears_ by Vaughan Williams. Each song is closed with bright applause - largely down to surprise at how well they're doing on that stage.

Despite his apparent wish to be bombastic, Pete has warned Sandra of his intentions in case she is absolutely against it, and she has promised to do an encore just for him. The first rendition completed, and applauded, the two pianists start _Jerusalem_ again, and Pete's assembled 'English people' are all on their feet and joining in, much to the amusement of those around them.

Encore completed, applause and cheering at an end, everyone waits for Taylor to return to the stage, "I'm not singing, folks." He advises, sagely, to ironic cheering, "I just want to thank the children for their performances this afternoon, and Sandra for her work in establishing what's looking like the Terra Nova Festival Chorus." He stops to acknowledge another wave of cheers, "And to make one more announcement. Could Mr and Mrs Reynolds join me on the stage, please?"

Their expressions a mixture of embarrassment and joy, Maddy and Mark do as he asks. Given how obvious it is what he's about to say, everyone stays remarkably quiet for the announcement, "Following our first wedding in the Colony, I'm delighted to announce that a baby Reynolds is on the way. I'm sure you'll join me in offering my congratulations to the expectant couple!"

The place almost erupts; and barely has the cheering died down than the pianists start the _Gloria_ again.

* * *

 **A/N** : For anyone who wants to listen to 'the concert', if you've got access to streaming services (in my case, it's Amazon Music), the recordings I've referenced for this are:

 _Vivaldi Gloria_ : Gloria and Bach Magnificat - Scola Cantorum of Oxford/Northern Chamber Orchestra on Naxos (just the _Gloria in Excelsis Deo_ )

 _I was Glad_ : Rule Britannia and other music from the Last Night of the Proms - English Northern Philharmonia/Leeds Festival Chorus on Naxos (this also has _Jerusalem_ on it, but I prefer a different version)

 _Nothing is Here for Tears_ : Vaughan Williams Sacred Choral Music - The Choir of Clare College, Cambridge on Naxos

 _Jerusalem_ : The Best Proms Album Ever - Carl Davis, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and Chorus on Techniche Label OMP.

Admittedly, these aren't accompanied by four-hand piano duet; but you'll get the idea.


	31. Long Shadow

**A/N** : In cricketing terms, what follows would be called a 'googly'...

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 _Long Shadow_

Tom Boylan glares at the list with a frown that might, if he tries hard enough, intimidate the ingredients upon it to become easily found. The barley turned out to be of no real use, much of the seeds having sprouted and rotted thanks to their abandonment, while he has no idea where to begin looking for hops.

Yseult sits with him, "It doesn't have to be hops, Tom. You could try a gruit."

"A _what_?" he stares at her as though she's speaking Greek.

"It's a mixture of herbs and botanicals that people used before hops were discovered to have better preservative properties - gruit does the same as hops do, except it doesn't have the antibacterial properties that favour the brewer's yeast. It's not a game killer if we can't find them. It just means you'll need to control the brewing process so that you can get a balance between not having enough, and having so much that it goes off before people can drink it."

"That's not helpful." He grumps.

"You _did_ actually know how beer was made before you decided you were going to make it?" she asks, a little cheekily.

"Not as well as I should've." He admits, sheepishly, "So, if we can't get hops, what do we try instead?"

"Let's see if we need to go down that route before we do it, Tom. Have a word with one of Mira's hunters - they'll have more luck tracking something down than we would. If they can bring back some seeds, that would be a start - though it might be worth sweet-talking someone in aeroponics to see what they can do about propagating female plants. Hop Gardens are girls-only - you don't want the plants to pollinate, so no lads allowed."

"Hell - this is going to be a nightmare." Boylan sighs, "Taylor's letting me grow grains for this bloody beer - and I haven't got any to grow. I can't find any bloody hops, and even if I do, growing them is going to be a killer."

"It'll be worth it," Yseult smiles at him, cheerfully, "You never know, you could end up with a magnificent artisan beer that would win awards if there were any here to win. There's all sorts of combinations you can try; it's not just lager and Guinness, you know. There are at least sixty distinct styles of beer in Germany to choose from, and they're not all based on barley. We could invent something completely new and call it _Kreidebier_."

"Excuse me?" Boylan looks at her as though she's gone mad.

" _Kreide_ \- it's German for _Cretaceous_."

"Now that I can relate to." He looks much more cheerful at the prospect of experimentation, "As long as we can find stuff to put in it."

At least things are going better with the cider, aren't they?" Yseult adds, encouragingly.

"Your mate's Project Scrumpy? God, yes - we've got some seedlings that look promising. The stuff from this year's crop is getting ready to go; not that it's much, but at least it's a start. That damned blight is still mushing up the taroca."

"You'll be getting people hammered yet, Tom."

* * *

Maddy arrives at her workstation at least an hour late, looking rather wan, "Sorry Malcolm," she says, "Mom says I'll get over this before long - or, at least, I hope I do. There's not a lot she can do about it."

Malcolm looks sympathetic; despite having a Masters in zoology, he knows absolutely nothing about pregnancy beyond clinical descriptions in textbooks, having been an only child and therefore not witnessed the arrival of siblings. Thus he is aware of the unpleasantness of morning sickness, but only in the sense of knowing what it is and what causes it. Not that he was aware that the term 'morning' is something of a misnomer. So far Maddy has been obliged to bolt from the labs at any time of the working day, not just in the supposed 'danger time'. Elisabeth is equally sympathetic, as she has been through three pregnancies and endured the same symptoms; but she is adamant: no messing with the hormones. Dry biscuits and ginger tea are the order of the day - though they only help so much. In the weeks since the announcement, there has been little change in her appearance, as she's still a little bit early to be showing; but nonetheless the presence of a new life is making itself keenly felt, it seems. Hopefully, though, as Maddy has been told, her hormones will do as the doctor says and settle back down again.

It's quite a bizarre thing to see the eldest Shannon child with a baby on the way, particularly given his own age. Having abandoned the idea of having children while a student, he hadn't given it another thought until Yseult came into his life. Elisabeth had a husband and children, thus squelching any silly ideas that might have played at the back of his mind about their resuming a relationship that was - if he is truly honest with himself - faltering before their eyes even before she left Oxford. With no female company, he had assumed that being a father simply wasn't going to happen - and it's only now that he feels there's hope that he might have children of his own after all, and give his lost parents a grandchild.

As the morning draws to an end, he wanders home to see what's been left in the fridge for lunch. Yseult has meetings for much of the day, so she made them both something, and took some of it with her to eat at the workshops. When she's not so busy, or he isn't, they habitually lunch at home, and it's a habit that's now ingrained, so he still goes home even if she's not going to be there - and so does she. Besides, it's not unknown for meetings to be cancelled, is it?

Letting himself in, he notices that the fertility goddess has moved again. Despite Elisabeth's warnings that her hormones won't get sorted overnight, he knows that Yseult is beginning to grow concerned that she hasn't conceived. While she didn't opt for full-on sterilisation, she had decided, as he had, that bringing children into a dying world seemed a cruel thing to do. She's younger than he is: not yet forty, so it's not as though she's missed the boat in terms of natural conception - but nonetheless, the fact that she seems to handle the ugly little clay sculpture every day suggests that she's afraid that the injection has had some permanent effect.

The fridge yields a rather good salad of fresh vegetables and cracked spelt, which he consumes while reading through a scientific paper on his plex, before washing up the crockery and setting it aside. As he does so, he notices a small pile of folded jersey tops, left to the side after being laundered, and decides to freak Yseult out by putting them away for her. He knows where they are meant to go, after all.

Pulling out the bottom drawer of the chest in the bedroom, he stops: bemused to see a bag in the drawer that is taking up a fair bit of the space. Shifting it, he stops - it's not empty.

He shouldn't look. It's none of his business…

But he can't help himself. He's a scientist, being nosy is in his nature.

Pulling out the bag, he opens it, and stops dead.

 _Niall_.

There's no reason why it shouldn't be there - he was a part of Yseult's life for years before they came through the portal. They were close - and happy, so what right does he have to expect her to forget him? He's a part of her past now, and she has moved on - moved on into a new relationship…

Then why did she hide the picture away? Why didn't she mention it?

Still holding the bag, he sits on the end of the bed and stares at the framed photograph within. The man with fox-red hair and vivid green eyes smiles up at him. It was put away. She isn't displaying it, dammit…

And yet, seeing it is like being stabbed through the chest…

 _Why the hell am I doing this? She loves me - she says so all the time. She proves it every time she looks into my eyes…every time she rests her hands on my arm, or my leg…or anywhere else for that matter…and yet…_

The man with fox red hair and vivid green eyes still smiles up at him - is he imagining it, or is that smile now slightly triumphant? Shuddering at his paranoia, Malcolm hastily fumbles the bag closed and shoves it back into the drawer. For reasons he can't - or, more probably, won't - explain, he retrieves the folded tops and puts them back in the living room, where Yseult left them. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Except he can't.

* * *

Josh is waving as Yseult cycles home from her compound, and she pulls up, "Hi Josh. What's up?"

"It's okay - the first of the new batch of cider's going to be available in the next few days, so we're having a cider evening on Friday night. I just wanted to give you this." He hands over a small card that turns out to be something akin to a formal invitation.

"That's lovely - thanks Josh. I'll see if I can persuade Malcolm to come - now that he's actually stepped over the threshold at Boylan's and _not_ caused the world to collapse into a black hole. I think people were quite disappointed when that happened. Or didn't."

"See you then?"

"Definitely." She smiles.

Resuming her journey, though now pushing the bike rather than riding it, she considers what she might cook for dinner. While it's not their intention that they should slip into predefined 'gender' roles in the house, she knows from experience that allowing Malcolm into the kitchen is a bad idea bordering almost on the hazardous. She smiles fondly to herself: he has absolutely _no_ idea whatsoever what to do with food other than eat it.

The house is empty when she gets back, and she sets the invitation on the counter, before noticing the jersey tops that she forgot to put away. Shaking her head at her absent mindedness, she collects them and puts them away, entirely failing to notice that the bag containing the photo of Niall is no longer lying lengthways.

She is halfway through prepping the vegetables when he comes in, looking rather distracted, but he smiles at her as he unlaces and kicks out of his boots, "Is there anything I can do that won't cripple me or poison you?"

"You can come and sit at the counter so I can stare adoringly at you until I cut off the tip of my finger, if you like."

He smiles again as he approaches the counter, but still seems slightly distracted, until he notices the invitation, "What's this?"

"Josh dropped it with me on the way home - they're having a connoisseur scrumpy booze-up on Friday, and we're invited."

"That's an interesting description."

She regards him for moment, "Are you okay?"

Malcolm looks up at her, slightly startled, "What? Oh, yes. Sorry: long day."

He watches her as she stir fries the vegetables with what seems, to him at least, considerable expertise. She is everything to him; _everything_ …and yet that long shadow still lies across them. Niall is no longer present - but at the same time he is…

"Are you _sure_ you're alright?" Yseult is looking up from the pan, her expression a little concerned.

"It's nothing." He says, quietly, "Just a few lurking notions that I really should be forgetting about by now."

Her eyes soften in sympathy: she thinks he's talking about his captivity in the Badlands. Or that bloody dream again.

They eat in silence, sitting together as always, rather than on opposite sides of the counter. Again, as always, Yseult is very, very close to him, as though pulled by a magnet; and he wonders why it is that she still seems to hold on to Niall as much as she does.

Cross with himself, he dispatches her to sit on the couch while he clears up and makes two mugs of tea. Even though they've been cohabiting to a significant degree for months, and 'officially' - as it were - for several weeks, she seems not to have tired of snuggling against him on the couch, and even now he doesn't even think not to slip his arm about her shoulders. He's lost count of the times she's fallen asleep on him and he's had to carry her through to the bedroom - and yet Niall is still present…

Yseult shifts, "What is it, Malcolm? Please tell me - you haven't been right since you got home. I can feel you tensing up."

He looks at her, a little helplessly, "I found the picture."

"Picture?" she looks confused.

"Of Niall."

Yseult blinks, "Niall? What about it? I've put it away in a drawer…" then she frowns, "exactly _how_ did you find the picture?"

"I noticed you'd left your tops out. I went to put them away - and it was in the drawer." He looks at her, trying not to show the hurt that he feels, "Why didn't you tell me you still had it?"

"It was in a bag, Malcolm - why were you going through my things?"

"I wasn't…it was just there…I…" he knows he has no excuse, but the hurt forces him to continue, "You hid the picture away, and you didn't tell me - did you think it was none of my business?"

She stares at him, "I put it away because it was something from my past. What did you expect me to do - put it in the disposal?"

"Well no…not as such…"

"Not as such? Not put a photograph of my late husband in the dustbin… _as such?_ Why on earth would you expect me to do that? I can't just pretend he never existed!"

"And I can't pretend that he's not still here!" Malcolm plunges on, driven by an almost irrational need to strike out against the pain that he feels, "Every step of the way, Max - he's been lurking over our shoulders - and I feel like there's three of us in this relationship…"

"I don't - I've _never_ felt that. Niall's dead, Malcolm - he's been gone five years. He'll always be a part of my life - a part of my memory and my heart; but that's _all_ he is now. I spent two years trying to love a ghost before I realised that I was chasing after nothing - I can't waste the rest of my life trying to love someone that's gone - not when I love someone that's here. But don't - _don't_ \- ask me to switch off my memories of him and what we shared. I can't do that - all I can do is draw a line and start building new memories of you and what we're sharing together. Is that too much to ask?"

He looks a little helpless: she's right - he _knows_ she's right - and yet…

"Are you jealous of him, Malcolm?" Yseult asks, very quietly.

"I…" his voice trails off. If he denies it, then they both know he's lying - but to admit to it is more than he can do.

"Do you think he matters to me more than you do?" she sounds like she's near to tears.

"Does he?" the words burst out almost unbidden, and he wishes, more than anything, that he could take them back. But he can't.

" _How can you ask me that?_ " Her voice is almost inaudible, her expression distraught.

"I'm sorry Max - really I am; I didn't mean to…"

"Then why did you say it?" she interrupts, "Because you think it's true? That you're a substitute for a dead man?"

"No! That's not what I meant…I don't know _what_ I meant; it was just seeing that photograph…I didn't mean to find it - I was just trying to help by tidying your things up - and it hurt…it really hurt…" his own eyes are filling with tears. He hates to see her so upset - and to know that he's the cause; but, at the same time, finding that picture upset _him_ , too.

She is on her feet now, "Maybe it's not me who has the problem with Niall, Malcolm. Maybe it's you. Have you thought about that? I thought that my world had ended when he died - and then I found you. If this is going nowhere, and you can't handle the fact that I was married once, then tell me now so that I can get through mourning another failed relationship and try and pick up the pieces of my life before it's too late. Okay?" she turns and heads off to the bedroom.

She's crying in there. He knows she is…how the hell did it get so out of control so quickly? This morning, she was the most precious thing in his life. And then he found that damned photograph, and suddenly that shadow is in the sun again. She loves him - but she loved Niall…

It's no good. He can't stand this - regardless of how hurt he feels, it's thanks to his own curiosity that he found that blasted photograph, and that's not her fault. Did she hide the picture from him, or merely stick in a drawer because there was nowhere else to put it? Does it matter to him which it is? Should it?

Malcolm opens the bedroom door to find the room in darkness. Yseult is on her side of the bed, cradling Schmidt. Rather than talk, he instead clambers onto the bed and rests alongside her, hoping that she won't reject his approach.

"I'm sorry, Max. Really sorry - I found the photograph by accident. I never meant any of this to happen - I love you, more than anything in the world. You're the most precious thing in my life, and I think that's why I overreacted the way that I did. I really wasn't searching through your belongings - I just wanted to startle you by putting your washing away."

For a moment, she doesn't move, and he feels a sick dread inside that he's broken their relationship through his stupidity.

"Niall's a part of my life, Malcolm." She says, eventually, "I can't change that - or make it unhappen."

"I know; it's just…I've never been so in love with anyone before; I'm hopeless at social interactions - you know I am." He sighs, as she still seems disinclined to face him, "Do you want Schmidt to act as a go-between?"

Finally, she turns over. His heart constricts at the sight of her reddened, teary eyes. God, he's really hurt her… far more than she could even be claimed to have hurt him…has he really done it? Destroyed what they had? _Please God, no._

"Please," he says, miserably, "I can't stand that I've hurt you - I really didn't mean to."

"Maybe not." Yseult answers quietly, "But you did. I think I'd like to be on my own tonight."

There's no point in protesting. Feeling horribly sick inside, Malcolm pulls back and heads out to the living room to spend the night on the couch.

* * *

"Try that, Shannon." Boylan advises, "My liquor consultant is pretty impressed, even if I do say so myself."

Lifting the glass of amber cider, Jim regards it. He has absolutely no expertise with the stuff, being a beer man; but as there's no beer…

The beverage is surprisingly good - a dry edge with crisp undertones, not that he knows what he's really talking about. His expression gives away his surprise as much as his enjoyment, and Boylan's grin is rather shark like; all but broadcasting _I'm back in business_. Ah well. It had to happen sooner or later. Given that there's no way that Taylor would attend something like this - invited or not - he'll have to keep tabs on the Commander's behalf; something that is distinctly less of a chore if there's more of this coming in.

"Try this - it's surprisingly not awful." He advises Elisabeth, who smiles as she takes the glass and takes a tentative sip, "You're English - what do you think of it?"

"Sharing a nationality with a beverage doesn't make me related to it, Jim." She laughs, "It's very nice; but I think I'll stick to one of Josh's cocktails."

Drinks in hand, the couple head to the table that all but serves as Jim's office, but then Elisabeth looks across to the entrance, "Oh dear - that doesn't look good."

Jim follows her gaze to see that Yseult has managed to drag Malcolm back to the bar in response to Josh's invitation. From the atmosphere that seems to have sprung up between them, it seems that she had to all but order him to accompany her, "Why? Malcolm hates coming here."

"It's not that, Jim. Something's happened - can't you see it?"

He frowns. He prides himself on having a Detective's nose when it comes to tracking down criminals, but fathoming out the relationship between Malcolm and Yseult is something that he has long since given up trying to do. Having said that, though - she looks very stiff, while Malcolm just looks miserable, despite trying to conceal it - but then he's never been that good at hiding his emotions. That he was able to lie so convincingly to Lucas and Weaver during the occupation came as something of a surprise, "Crap - they've had an argument, haven't they?"

"It looks like it." She sighs, "Given how close they are to one another, I suppose it's inevitable that they'd be so bashed up by it - loving someone makes you incredibly vulnerable to being hurt by them - and vice versa. I think they're just finding that out."

"Hell, they were doing so well. I hope this doesn't spoil things for them. Should we talk to them?" He really hopes she'll say no - but she doesn't need to, as they cross to a table away from other people and sit together - though nothing like as close together as usual; and, Jim notes, both of Yseult's hands are visible. Oddly, though, they don't sit on opposite sides; it seems that, even though they have argued, they still can't be apart from each other.

"I think I'll keep tabs on them." Elisabeth muses, "Maybe check in with Max on how things are going with her cycle now that she's been off the contraceptives for a few months."

"Okay," Jim shudders, "That's _way_ too much information."

She smiles and squeezes his hand, "I'm sure it'll blow over. These things usually do."

* * *

"Sorry Max - I'm going to need a hand at the power plant." Geoff advises, using his rather over-technological term for what is, essentially, a sequence of water-wheels, "It's not a brute force job - but it does need a good eye."

"No problem. Give me about ten minutes and I'll be with you, okay?"

He nods, and departs. As soon as the door is closed, Yseult is looking at Pete with an almost deadly expression, "Don't say a word."

"Suit yourself, Max; but it wouldn't do you any harm to talk it over." He chides, without rancour, "I don't know what caused you two to go to DefCon one, but even I can see that you're both having trouble sticking to it. Being snotty with someone takes a hell of a lot of effort. Just get on with the making up, won't you?"

"I thought I said not to say a word?"

"Woah - don't take it out on me, darling. I'll start making cracks about PMT if you do."

Yseult sighs. In the three days since they argued, she hasn't demanded that Malcolm remain on the couch, and they share the bed again; but that's as far as it goes. She's back in a night-shirt, and the pair merely sleep, nothing more: as though they have been obliged to do so because there are no twin beds left. And yet, even now, she can't bear to be apart from him. It's crazy. Maybe Pete's right - set it aside and get on with the making up…

"I'll be back in a bit. Geoff wants me to help him with some wheel wrangling - one of the struts has snapped."

Pete nods, "I'll make sure there's a pot of coffee ready."

Yseult rarely visits the power plant, as it works so efficiently that she doesn't need to. Besides, Geoff's the engineer, so he maintains it - but he needs a metalworker to sort out the broken strut, and she's the best one in the compound. Having already fabricated a replacement, he just needs her assistance to make final adjustments and fit it.

It's certainly a beautiful part of the compound - the large river that encircles the outside of the colony surrounded by mountains and trees, and just the perfect speed for water-wheels. Even if they lost the wind turbines and solar farm, there's still that.

The sequence of wheels is built on a series of concrete pilings that have been driven into the depths of the river bed, while the river itself forms an undershot drive. Each wheel is connected to a sequence of gears, some of which generate electricity, while the two closest to the bank run the flour mill, and their planned cotton mill. The broken strut is located at the far end, where the water runs fast and deep: ideal for the strong, continual flow needed to generate power. Needless to say, Geoff has taken great care to ensure appropriate railings to keep people from falling off.

"Here," he says, handing her a harness, "Attach yourself to the railings; the water's much colder than it looks, and it's pretty fast, too, so it's good to have a means of pulling yourself out quickly."

Once attached, the pair lower themselves down onto the maintenance platform that stands alongside the wheel. All of the wheels have the water guided through sluices, as there's no other way to stop them, so Geoff has closed the appropriate sluice to keep theirs still while they work, "Right." Yseult says, reaching into a bag around her body for the appropriate part, "Let's get going, shall we?"

* * *

Pete snorts with laughter at Louis's latest - rather smutty - message on his plex, and takes a swig of his coffee; then shakes his head with tolerant amusement as the messenger function pings again.

 _Urgent message: Radiosondes indicate major thunderstorm activity approx. fifty miles upstream from colony. Flood wave anticipated in approximately thirty minutes - expected height 5.1 metres above normal. All staff working at riverside should withdraw to safe zones immediately and remain away from the banks for the next two hours._

 _Carol Weisz_

 _Head Meteorologist_

It's gone to all the senior team, copied to everyone who has responsibility for teams working alongside the river. He wouldn't normally get such missives, as he works in the forest - but Max has set a forward for messages in case something comes up that will need action within the compound. There's no way Max and Geoff will've seen this - they've been gone for over an hour, so he'd best stroll down and let them know. It's as he's about to cut the display that he notices the time that the original message issued.

Abandoning his coffee, he flees the office and bolts for the river.

* * *

"Nearly there, Geoff." Yseult hammers carefully at the strut to encourage it to bend slightly, "There. Done." She looks up at him as her attention is caught by a low level rumbling somewhere nearby, "What's that noise?"

He looks up, frowning, and then his expression changes, "Oh shit…"

"What?" She doesn't have even a second of time to turn - there's a sudden blast of wind, and then she is struck violently by a rush of brown, stone-filled water that hammers her against the straps of the harness with shocking force. Being designed solely to hold someone who is falling, the extra pressure proves too much for the catches, and suddenly she is in the water, the cold snatching her breath away, the pressure driving her down under the surface into cold darkness.

Instinct takes over, her hands clawing upwards, kicking wildly; she is tumbling so much that she can't remember which way is up, but there seems to be light above her head, and she fights to reach it against a violent undertow that seems equally determined to keep her where she is. For the briefest moment, she breaks the surface, and snatches a breath, but she is no match for the sudden violence of the river, and in seconds, she is in airless dark once again - and this time she seems only to be going deeper in the grip of a current that is aiming straight for the bottom.

There's no thought in her head but one: to go on living - no matter what: a frantic, panicked need to return to the light that seems to have vanished. Her chest is burning, the need to breathe becoming overwhelming. _No, no, no, no, no_

Her breath gives out, and her reflexes override her will…

Then nothing.

* * *

Sitting at his desk, Malcolm stares at the figures on the screen, but doesn't see them. The argument that they had - the hurt that he caused Yseult such a miserable, horrible awfulness that he is sinking into a ghastly morass of self-recrimination that is becoming almost ridiculous in its grandiosity. Maybe he should just walk up to the compound and throw himself at her feet or something - it's horrible, horrible beyond imagining to share a bed with someone and not be close to them. Whatever it takes - anything to demonstrate to her that he's sorry for hurting her and wants only to make up for it. What was it that Taylor said about doing if he hurt her? Skinning him alive and leaving him for a Carno? Oh, for God's sake - now he's starting to move his floundering into self-pity, and that really _is_ grotesque…

He's not sure when he first notices the conversation; the speakers are in an adjoining room, and have no idea that they're being overheard, "…hang on - it's Mark again. Apparently Geoff's dead - he was impaled on something by the force of the water."

"Oh, my God - poor Pam…"

"It's worse. They're still looking for Max - her safety harness snapped, and she went into the river."

Malcolm freezes, his eyes widening in horror, absolutely rigid in his chair.

"No - hang on, they've found her. Oh no…"

"What?" the other voice asks.

 _What?_ Thinks Malcolm, _WHAT?_

"Pete's got her out of the river - but she's drowned…" the voice falters.

There's silence for several minutes.

"Hang on, Mark's sent another message." A sigh of relief, "It's okay - one of her team resuscitated her: she'd just stopped breathing. Someone's bringing her up to the infirmary. Oh hell - someone needs to let Malcolm know so he can get there. Is he still here?"

One of the pair hurries round to his office - but it's empty.

* * *

The generator stack is silent and keeps him well hidden - just as it did until that one moment when Jim caught them…

 _No…don't think about it…just don't…_

Shaking, his eyes wide, Malcolm leans against the wall, and allows his legs to give, sliding awkwardly down to the ground. The words are in his head: he keeps on saying them to himself over and over again, but he can't bring himself to believe them.

 _Max is dead. She's drowned - she's gone…she's dead…she died without knowing I was sorry…_

He feels as though he can't breathe - all the air pushed out of him by the pain crushing his chest. He wants to scream - to howl - but he can't breathe…

 _If you hurt her, I swear to God I'll skin you alive and hang you outside the gates for the Carnos_

 _You wouldn't need to. I'd have walked out and found one myself_.

He closes his eyes, and moans in pain. It was't like this with his father - Da's death was a remote, unreal thing that he learned from his mother; but when they'd had to leave, there had been no chance of his joining them, and no opportunity for them to return - in some ways, he was gone the moment he got into that car. And with his mother; they'd both known she was dying, and he'd done his crying before she was gone - another departure that drove her actual death into that same limbo.

But this? She was everything to him…he never, _never_ , thought he would find someone to love the way that Elisabeth loves Jim - and what about the engagement ring that he's commissioned from one of the jewellery hobbyists? He couldn't propose without one, his mother's was sold along with her wedding ring, but the replacement's not ready yet…and now he'll never get the chance…

Somewhere, in the distance, he can hear someone shouting his name. They're looking for him. Well, of course they would - he needs to be told, after all. But he already knows; and to hear those words from someone else can only make them more real - and that, he is not ready to endure.

She's been almost like the other half of him for a year; a rock to which he has anchored himself in the storms that all but broke him apart when those who wanted to harm him had him in their control. He can't carry the burden of the last year on his own; he tried it and almost went out of his mind. He needs her…and she's gone. All that he has left now is a corpse to identify and a collection of belongings to pack into boxes…that fertility goddess that she was all but praying to in her wish to give him a child…soft, cuddly Schmidt…

A strangled sob chokes out of him, and he sinks to the ground completely, crumpled on his side. She's gone. She's really gone…he's lost her. He wants to scream again - but that ghastly pain in his chest still constricts him, and he can't. Oh God - he can't do this; he can't look at her drowned body, nor can he pack her belongings into boxes - and he can't go back to that horrible, sterile existence that was his life before he looked into her eyes and found that there was, for that moment, not another person in the entire world. Not now. Not ever again - if she's gone, he wants to go with her.

Slowly, painfully, he clambers back up the wall to get back to his feet. Everyone he loves is dead: His father - his mother…and now his beautiful, precious Yseult. Maybe they're all together? Perhaps she's telling them about him, learning about them. He's never thought about life after death - he's a scientist, after all - but now he needs to believe it: more than he's ever needed to believe anything in his life. If there is, then she's there - and she can still smile. Still laugh…still be wonderful…and he can still be with her.

Vaguely, he is aware of his name being called again, but he dismisses it. Why tell him something he already knows? Not that it matters: the news can't break him any more than he's already been broken. He came to this place in search of a new life - and he _found_ it. And then it was taken away.

Walking slowly, Malcolm emerges into the marketplace. He doesn't look up, but he is aware that people are talking amongst themselves; not that anyone seems to see him. Do they even care? Perhaps not - they never did before, so why change? Yseult was the one they loved, after all - no one's heart but hers would break for him.

He takes refuge behind a stand of shrubs and looks out through the fence to the wide expanse of open ground that lies beyond. It would take some time, probably a good half hour's walk, to get far enough into the forest to find something large and carnivorous that could finish it for him. He'd shoot himself, but his regulation sidearm is locked in his office, and that would mean someone would almost certainly find him first.

The pain is less now; now that he's decided what he's going to do: it's nice to have a plan after everything was so utterly wrenched from him - it's as though he's back in control again. The only issue left to consider is how the hell to get outside.

The gate's closed - but he can see a rover approaching as a patrol comes back in, and already someone's giving the order to let them in. Will they notice if he walks out? Probably - but would they stop him? That's another matter - he is under no illusions as to how little people like him, after all. Moving without any apparent aim in mind, he steps out from the stand of shrubs so that he can be at the gate as it rises…

"Malcolm - there you are! Where the hell are you going?" a hand grasps his arm, and he turns to see Jim, who is staring at him in shock, "What's wrong?"

"She's dead, Jim." He says, dully, "Max is dead. She drowned."

"Who the hell told you that? Of course she isn't - they got her back. They're bringing her up to the infirmary - everyone's been looking all over for you!"

He stares at the Deputy, his expression uncomprehending, "That's not what I heard…"

"Not if you only heard half of it. I'm not kidding - Pete pulled her out of the water and resuscitated her; they're bringing her up to the main compound now. If we get to the infirmary, you'll be there when they get her here. Come on."

He stares at Jim, trying to accept the news. Behind him the gate opens to admit the rover, and closes again.

* * *

"Sit down, Malcolm." Elisabeth's voice is firm, "I can't talk to you if you keep on pacing like that."

"She drowned, Elisabeth…" Malcolm begins, then sits in response to her hard glare.

"Yes, she did; but Pete got the message about the flash flood and managed to get to the riverside in time to spot her in the water and coordinate her retrieval. They got her out and resuscitated her - it was only her breathing that had stopped at that point. We've checked her lungs and taken steps to prevent secondary drowning, so she'll be absolutely fine in a few days once the pains in her chest subside. She's sedated at the moment, but other than that there's no damage." She sits down and faces him across the desk, "Now - what was all this nonsense about walking out of the compound?"

"I…" he stares at the floor, "I remember telling Taylor that he wouldn't have to feed me to a Carno if I hurt Max - I was going to go and look for one."

"Why?"

His head comes up and he stares at her, "What do you mean, 'why'? Isn't it obvious?"

Elisabeth says nothing, but continues to watch him.

"I hurt her, Elisabeth. I found her picture of Niall in a drawer - and I got stupidly jealous of him. And I nearly lost her…" Malcolm's face creases with pain, "God…I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have to go and identify her body - and then to have to go home alone…

"But you didn't." She says, gently, "She's in intensive care at the moment. Ironically, in the same bed that you occupied on both occasions that that you were here, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding her."

His eyes full of tears, Malcolm stands up, "Thank you." His voice is so faint it's barely audible, but she smiles, and waves him out.

* * *

Was this what it was like for her? Sitting over a loved one who lies silent and still, surrounded by diagnostic equipment? He has no idea how long he's been sitting here now: an hour at least. His eyes never leaving her pale face, Malcolm grasps her hand in both of his, pleading with her in his head to just wake up; wake up and look at him. She could've died - she nearly _did_ …does she even know that her colleague is dead? _Oh God…please wake up…_

"Please come back, Max." He whispers, aloud, "I'm so sorry…I never meant to hurt you, and it wasn't even your fault…it was me being an idiot. I can't live if you don't…please, just wake up…"

There's no answer. No sign that she's heard him, or that she's going to listen to him and open her eyes - but the need to apologise to her, to tell her how sorry he is and plead with her to forgive him is becoming more than he can stand…

" _Ich vermisse dich Opa ... warum kann ich nicht bleiben?_ "

He stares at her, is she talking to her grandfather? Her eyes are still closed - perhaps she's dreaming or something.

" _Ja, ich liebe ihn - sehr, sehr viel_."

Malcolm blinks, not understanding - what is she saying? Clasping her hand, he leans in close, "Wake up, Max. It's me - Malcolm."

" _Er hat mich nicht gefragt, ihn noch zu heiraten; aber ich hoffe, dass er bald wird_."

He rests his hand on her forehead, "Come back to me, Max. I can't understand what you're saying." _Please…_

Vaguely, her eyes open, and she looks around, bemused - she doesn't seem to know where she is.

"It's okay." He tries again.

Then she sees him, "Malcolm…"

He tries to speak, but the words are lost in tears as he breaks down. He nearly lost her…so nearly lost her…for a ghastly, agonising half hour, he thought she was dead.

"I love you Max," he sobs, "I'm sorry I hurt you. God, I'm so sorry - please, I can't stand that I caused you pain - I really can't. Please, _please_ forgive me…"

Her arms clutch against him, drawing him so close to her that his tears are soaking into her hair. Her eyes are closed as she simply holds on to him. Words seem not to matter now - just that closeness that seemed so far away in the cold, dark depths of the river.

"Hurts to speak." She says, eventually, her voice sounding thick and hoarse, "Forgive you - _love you_. Hold me…please…"

It's all he needs to hear. Carefully, gently, he wraps his arms about her and holds her close.


	32. Winter Dreams

**A/N** : And after that monstrous curveball, a peaceful, Christmassy interlude...with nice little surprise at the end. Thank you yet again (I'm getting a bit like a stuck record on this one) for all the lovely reviews. I really appreciate your support and I'm glad you're enjoying reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

* * *

Chapter Thirty Two

 _Winter Dreams_

Taylor reads the latest reports from the various teams on their progress during the year. Despite their marginal observance of the seasons, he still continues to run things on the basis of calendar years, so all the reports that he has are the last of the year, solstice being barely a week away.

He sighs as he reads about the loss of Geoff; a talented engineer who, while he can be replaced in terms of ability, as he had several people in his team, seems to have left a real hole in the Sustainable Industries department - certainly he was very popular with his colleagues, all of whom have rallied around his widow. Unlike Mike, who is not lamented at all thanks to the manner in which he brought about his death, the funeral was very well attended. The only people at Mike's burial were the Chaplain and Taylor himself - and he only went because he wanted a sense of closure to the horrible incident. The arrival of Ben, from Mira's contingent - he fights with himself to avoid using the term _Sixers_ any more - seems to have filled that gap admirably. While he is also something of a man-mountain, he's with someone already, so there's no danger of history repeating itself on that score.

At least Yseult survived the sudden wave of floodwater that swamped the river so violently. Carol's warning had reached almost everyone - but if Pete hadn't seen it, then they would have been mourning her, too. Thank God she survived; chances are that, if she hadn't, Malcolm might well have actually left the compound with the intention of engaging with something with teeth - and even if they'd stopped him, he would've been a broken wreck with that to cope with on top of everything else that he went through. She's home now, awaiting the all clear to return to work, though she's probably been okay to go back for a while - Elisabeth seems to have been stalling on that front. They've had a hell of a year - the pair of them. If there's one good thing about it all, it seems to have got them back together again; he hadn't noticed the friction that had developed between them - that was something Jim mentioned - but everyone is now wondering if they're going to take the next step and actually tie the knot.

Now that the final figures and statistics are in from the Agriculture teams, it seems that the less fruitful year that has passed wasn't quite as unfruitful as he had feared. There are no significant gluts, that's true: but stocks are high, and they won't starve. All in all, he's more than happy with how things have panned out this year - at least in terms of practicality.

It seems strange to him now that they no longer have the threat of the Phoenix Group hanging over their heads. The destruction of Hope Plaza is hardly going to take a short time to rectify, and what are the chances of anyone backing a new project given the disaster that befell the site? Who's going to know that it was a bomb that destroyed it, and not some catastrophic accident that could've happened sooner or later of its own accord? No - he feels as secure as is possible given the lack of communication that there's no risk of another assault in even the medium term. Of those who tried to take their home, the stranded soldiers are either dead, or happily assimilated into the colony, while those who betrayed them have also found a way back in that has worked for everyone. Certainly, given the alternative, the three remaining soldiers are more than grateful to be part of the community - particularly that one who's taken up with Yseult's deputy - what was his name? Oh yes: Louis.

Losing contact with the future wasn't really the way he wanted things to pan out - but given what the future had planned for them, it seems to him that they had no other choice. There may be no new pilgrims joining them; but at least there's no one coming to steal the resources that this young world has to offer. Better to consider the glass to be half full than half empty.

How many times has he thought that through, now? More than he can count; but it serves as a constant reminder to him that the choices that they made in the face of occupation were the right ones. Even though the price for those choices was as high as it was.

Finishing the last few notes, he adds a few comments of his own, and saves them to transmit to the Eye.

* * *

Old habits die hard - and so do young ones, it seems. Coming home for lunch is an integral part of Malcolm's day, whereas once it was a rare thing for him to even remember to eat one. He does, of course, have a very good reason to do so.

Yseult is looking so much better - her chest is fine now, and she is almost climbing the walls with boredom, wanting to get back to work. It does mean that she tends to spend rather more time cooking than usual, so the meal that awaits him is more elaborate than a salad, but the fact that she's there - that she's _alive_ \- is what matters the most.

He looks at the small box on his desk with a nervous sigh. Inside is a remarkably pretty ring, made of gold panned from the river, with a simply set iolite, the bluest one that Sozume, the hobby-jeweller who also plays the koto, could find on one of her many mineral hunts around the colony. Being married to one of Yseult's other engineers, she is as fond of Yseult as anyone else who knows her, and she has gone to great lengths to ensure that the ring is as perfect as she can make it. Given that he has no heirloom to pass on, it's just what he'd hoped for, and he knows Yseult well enough to know that she loathes jewellery that's ostentatious or obvious.

Putting it back in a drawer, he ponders the next problem: how to actually _propose_.

* * *

"Elisabeth's given me the all clear to start work on Monday." Yseult says, as she dishes out a vegetable stir fry, "So it's back to salads and sandwiches again next week."

"I can't complain." Malcolm smiles at her, "I think I need to be better behaved on that front - I'm sure I've put weight on while you've been off work."

"Gives me more to hang on to." She glances at him, a slightly wicked expression in her eyes.

In the time that they've been home, the pair have been as engrossed in one another as ever. Having spent a good thirty minutes or more thinking that she was dead, Malcolm treats every minute that they're together as a grand reprieve, and Yseult, having thought that she was going to die, is much the same. Perhaps they should discuss the issue of Niall, but the near-disaster that engulfed them has driven him out of their minds for the time being, regardless of whether or not his imagined presence has been truly tackled and set aside.

Their conversation is sparse as they eat, though Yseult has resumed her habit of sitting very, very close to him. Even when she was feeling at her most wounded after their argument, she almost couldn't bear to be apart from him; missing that sense of his presence almost tangibly. She has, however, always been that way - loving utterly and absolutely; perhaps the fact that he genuinely meant no harm helped. Besides, she knows him well enough now to know that he appreciates that closeness as much as she does. Niall found it so hard - even though he adored her - and to find that Malcolm doesn't merely tolerate it, but actively welcomes it, is something that she revels in.

"Do you want me to clear up?" Malcolm asks, as they set the plates aside.

"It's okay - leave them, it'll give me something exciting to do this afternoon." Yseult laughs, "But I'd appreciate a nice hot cup of tea."

Seated together, she snuggles close to him on the couch as she always does, and he wraps his arm about her shoulders, as he always does. Should he do it now? No - he's left the ring in his office. Damn. Maybe he should start carrying it around - it's not as though the pockets of his cargo pants are lacking the space for it.

It seems ridiculous - all he needs to say are the four words 'will', 'you', 'marry' and 'me' - and it's as though he's trying to say something enormous like _Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis_. The trouble is - he wants it to be just _right_ : a proposal that she'll remember. He has no idea how Niall did it - but given that Niall is now something of a taboo subject between them, he doesn't want to ask. Maybe a suitable opportunity will present itself - in which case, he needs to be sure that he's always got that ring with him.

"Are you alright?" Yseult asks, sounding a little drowsy.

He tightens his arms around her, "Very. Are you going to fall asleep on me?"

"I'm thinking about it. Then you can't go back to work this afternoon, and I have you all to myself."

"Tempting though that sounds, I'll have to decline, I'm afraid. I don't think Commander Taylor will appreciate me not turning up to our meeting and using the excuse 'Max fell asleep on me.'" He thinks about it, "It'd probably make him laugh, mind. Once he'd stopped lecturing me about keeping to commitments and being on time."

"Either that or he'd ask what we were doing to make me fall asleep on you."

He shudders with embarrassment, "Don't even go there."

* * *

Maddy sits up from the bio-bed, "Is everything okay?"

"Absolutely fine, Maddy." Elisabeth assures, "I know you don't believe it, but these scans are all perfectly routine - your little one's coming on in leaps and bounds."

"It feels like it." She admits, "I knew babies moved in the womb, but I couldn't imagine what it would feel like until now."

"I suppose you can't, until you have one yourself." Elisabeth laughs, "This is just the beginning - wait until the little one's larger, then you'll _really_ notice it. How's Mark coping with all of this? I'm surprised he's not with you - this is the first scan he's missed."

"He's being brilliant, Mom; the only reason he's not here is because he's on duty, and couldn't get the time to come with me."

"I think I'll go and see Mr Guzman later on armed with a Hard Stare. I take it you don't want to know what you'll be having?"

"No. we want it to be a surprise." Maddy insists, "If you know, then please don't tell me."

"I'm taking great care to _not_ know." Elisabeth admits, "If I did, then I don't think I could stop myself from letting it slip - I learned that the hard way a long time ago. It's frighteningly easy to accidentally say 'he' or 'she' without thinking - and I did that with one of the first couples I was monitoring, and they wanted to keep it a surprise as much as you do - so I usually qualify my discussions with parents to be as 'I shall be using the pronoun _he_ throughout because I don't want to say _it_ '."

"That sounds a real minefield." Maddy laughs, "I'm glad I went into Pharmacology."

"Everything's progressing beautifully." Elisabeth assures her, "And I'll be telling your father that as soon as I get home tonight."

* * *

Taylor sets the plex down, "This is looking pretty good for next year. I take it this is just preliminary?"

Malcolm nods, "It has to be - some of Chris's plans are dependent on how the weather pans out this winter before the new growing season begins - our long-term forecasting ability would be reliant on satellites, which we don't have. Carol's radiosondes are great, but they can only get so high before the balloon bursts and they drop again."

The Commander nods, then sets the plex down, and sits back in his chair, "And what about your plans?"

"Mine?" Malcolm asks, a little bemused, "I've just presented them…"

"You know what I mean." Taylor interrupts, pointedly, "When are you going to man up and ask Max to marry you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Call me intrusive if you want - I don't really care. But you nearly lost Max a few weeks ago - don't make the same mistake I made, for God's sake. I'm still regretting it now."

Malcolm frowns, then his expression changes as he realises what Taylor means, "Lieutenant Washington?"

"I let the ghost of a past marriage hold me back - pretended to myself that what I felt for Alicia was just friendship. There was always more time - until there wasn't. It's only hindsight that's twenty-twenty, Malcolm - you didn't see the woman you loved die."

"I thought she was." Malcolm admits, "I overheard some of my team reading messages from the riverside - I heard them say she'd drowned, and I just went into shock and stumbled out. I didn't hear the rest of the message that said that she'd been resuscitated; for about half an hour, I thought she'd died." He sits very still for a moment, struggling with the memory, "When Jim found me, I was waiting for the gates to open so I could go out and find something that would kill me. If she was dead, I wanted to be with her."

Taylor nods. He can understand that; ironically, it was his need to protect the Colony, to wrest it back from those who were intent on its destruction that had kept him going when he lost Alicia. The cruellest part of that was that the one who'd taken Alicia from him was the one who had kept him going when Ayani was taken from him.

"I _want_ to ask Max to marry me," Malcolm admits, "I want to make that commitment to her - more than anything. It's just…I want it to be _right_. And…and…I don't know how to make it that way."

"I find just saying the words tends to be the way forward." Taylor advises, dryly.

"It's not that; it's just, she's been married before, and I don't want to look like I'm trying to copy Niall, or outdo him…"

"What's Niall got to do with any of this? Whatever you do'll be unique because you're the one asking, not him."

Malcolm looks at him, a bit helplessly, and then he gets it; the problem isn't so much being reminiscent of Niall - but the fact that he exists at all, "So, basically, the problem is that you can't ask her to marry you because of Niall? Why? Did you ever meet him?"

Malcolm shakes his head, "No. I don't recognise his face - and until Max turned up at the staff meeting, I'd never seen her. We moved in entirely different circles - well; _she_ did. I just went to work and back."

Taylor nods. Despite there being only a limited number of Colonists, a thousand is a _lot_ of people. It's no surprise that someone as unsociable as Malcolm wouldn't have come across her.

"Don't you think you're building too much on him? He's gone - she lost him five years ago, and now she's got you. Believe me, you're not a Niall substitute. If there's one thing I've observed about Max, she loves absolutely and completely. That's a rare thing - and it's something that she's chosen to give to you. There are no caveats, no conditions - the only person who's imposing them is you, isn't it?"

Malcolm nods, glumly, "I think so. You're right about her - I had no idea until I met her. I thought I had something with Elisabeth, but she knew we didn't - and now that I've got Max, I understand that, too. That's why I hurt her so much when I overreacted about Niall; but I think, in some ways, that I feel the same way about her, and that's _why_ I overreacted. And that's why I decided to go out and introduce myself to the nearest Carnotaurus when I thought she was dead. Of all the bad things that've happened to me - it doesn't get worse than thinking Max had drowned."

"Well you _have_ had a pretty awful year." Taylor agrees.

"Not just that - the occupation was horrible as well."

"McCormick; yeah, that was cruel as hell. It can't have helped having people thinking you were helping Lucas and Weaver because you wanted to, or you were too much of a coward to refuse."

"I think that's why I never told anyone that Lucas had me tortured." Malcolm murmurs.

"He _what?_ " Taylor stares at him, "When did he do that?"

"After the Shannons escaped, and he…shot Lieutenant Washington. He was looking for someone else - anyone else - who might know where you were. I was the only member of the senior staff left. He couldn't shoot me: not if he wanted that bloody terminus working again; so he opted for torture. He left me with two of Mira's men - they strapped me into a chair, blindfolded me and kept shocking me with a taser until they finally accepted I had no idea where you were. The only instruction he gave them was to make sure that I was capable of continuing work after they'd finished with me. I only found out where to find you the evening before they fired up the terminus once I'd finished it. Skye told me - she was the only one that wasn't under the same degree of scrutiny as we were, so Jim felt she would be safe if she knew."

"Christ, Malcolm - why didn't you say anything?"

He sighs, "After what other people went through? It seemed so minor in comparison - and, to be honest, I thought that people would think I was angling for sympathy. Besides, I got my revenge in a way - I blew the terminus. The fact that both the men involved are dead now means I don't have to see them around the Colony, which is helpful. One died in the Badlands, the other one in the forest just before Mira brought them here."

"But you thought people wouldn't take you seriously?"

"Would you?" Malcolm asks, pointedly, "Let's face it, Commander, things might have changed a little - but I'm still considered to be a stuck up idiot by half the Colony, and I suspect that not a few of them wonder what the hell Max is doing with me. Given that most people assumed I was too much of a coward to refuse to mend the terminus, or that I agreed to do it willingly, I'm not fool enough to think that I'm Mr Popular around here. Even when I was a _really_ obnoxious berk, I didn't think that."

"I like that: 'berk'. You and your English expressions." Taylor smiles. Regardless of anything that Malcolm has said, he's grown, and become a considerably less annoying man than he used to be.

"I'm Scottish." Malcolm answers, almost a reflex response - then he realises what he's just said, and looks rather embarrassed. So much for keeping _that_ quiet. Telling Yseult must've weakened his barriers over that issue.

"Pardon?"

"I was named after Malcolm III of Scotland: the one who turfed out Macbeth, and I'm a member of Clan Wallace: the one that William Wallace belonged to - and no he's not an ancestor."

"You're yanking my chain…"

Malcolm shakes his head, then rises from his chair and looks out of the window, "I was born in Kilmarnock. My father was Duncan Wallace."

" _The_ Duncan Wallace?" Taylor asks, just as Jim and Yseult did before him. He knows the name as much as they do.

"Yes. Do you remember when I lost my rag with you and Jim when you were questioning Rob about the Sixer spy? Now you know why. I was ten years old when they came to escort him to Holyrood for the hearings. I never saw him again."

"All your paperwork says you're English - not to mention your accent."

"Guilt by association, Commander. When my father was indicted, my mother lost her job at the University - and all of my father's assets were confiscated. It was a choice of stay in Scotland and live in poverty, or move to England to live with my mother's cousin. So we moved."

"How the hell did you get out? I recall the border between Scotland and England being tighter than a frog's ass back then - you'd've needed exit passes to get out legally."

"My mother sold her engagement and wedding rings. It got her enough to bribe an official to give us the passes, and pay for the rail ticket to King's Cross. If we hadn't been picked up at the other end, then we would've been stranded. It's only because she had English relatives that we were able to qualify for Citizenship - otherwise I wouldn't have been able to go to school, and I would've been sent back. As it was, the only decent schools by then were the ones that charged fees, so she home schooled me for two years, and then I got a scholarship to Harrow. It all sort of went from there, really. That's why I don't sound Scottish - I trained myself to speak differently when I was at Harrow. I don't think I could consciously revert to my Scots accent now even with a gun to my head."

"Does Max know?" Taylor asks, quietly.

Malcolm nods, "She knew it even before we were officially dating. I told her while we were watching over a charcoal burn. Believe me: we don't have any secrets from each other. I've told her everything about myself that I can think of - including what those two Sixers did to me. Anything that I've forgotten, I'll add it as I go."

"I don't know about you, but that sounds like commitment. Just get your butt into gear and ask her to marry you, Malcolm. Even if it's not getting to Max, it's driving all of _us_ up the wall. Don't force me to make it an order."

"I'm a civilian." Malcolm reminds him.

"Then I'll do it at gunpoint."

* * *

Yseult wakes to find the other side of the bed empty, and looks around, bemused. She's not a particularly heavy sleeper, but she didn't notice Malcolm get up, and she wonders where he is.

"Bugger. I was hoping you'd wake up and find a mug of tea at the bedside."

She sits up a little to see him in the doorway with a brace of steaming mugs, and she smiles. While the festival itself is tomorrow, the Solstice holiday always starts the day before - a form of Christmas Eve, perhaps; though for her, Christmas Eve was the night upon which her family celebrated in Germany - something she continued to do even after she moved to England; it was a great excuse to have two parties - _Christkindl Nacht_ the night before for her, and then Christmas Day for Niall. She fully intends to maintain that tradition with Malcolm. Besides, Louis, never able to keep a secret, has let slip to Pete that the choir will be sneaking into the market place this evening to sing carols and see how many people turn up to find out what's going on. Given that there'll be some form of party at Boylan's as it is, they won't be short of an audience.

"So, what are we going to do today?" Malcolm muses as he hands over her mug and sets his down.

"I can think of something." Yseult smiles, leaning in to share a kiss.

"We can't do _that_ all day. What do we do afterwards?" he smiles at her.

"Opa used to take me for a walk in the morning: sometimes we'd go to the _Weinachtmarkt_ in the Römerberg, or we'd go tobogganing if there'd been any snow - though that had become a real rarity by that time." She says, "We'd get home, and I'd find that my father had come home from work, and the _Christkind_ had been - so we'd open our presents, and then we'd have dinner in the evening, usually a roast goose or a carp, and then we'd go to a midnight mass. Opa insisted on that. Some households would have another huge meal on Christmas day, and the day after, too - but we tended to push the boat out on Christmas Eve. It was weird to come to England and find that people didn't do that, so I used to have a sort of 'German Evening' for our friends to replicate it."

"Do you want to do that here?" He asks.

"I haven't for a long time - it would be lovely; though I haven't got anything to do it with this year. We'll have to do it next year instead - but I can wait."

"I'm all for extending a holiday. We might even have some friends who'll have learned to tolerate me by then."

* * *

The day is quiet - though a few traders are busy at the marketplace, catering for those who haven't got everything quite ready for tomorrow. As he always does, Boylan is going to take over the bar for the people who don't have families with whom they can spend the holiday, particularly as it tends to turn into a much larger gathering as people drift in later in the day. Most people are busy at home, putting up decorations where they wish to, preparing industrial quantities of vegetables and prevailing upon Julia for any remaining vintages that aren't made from something too shocking. Elisabeth is one of the vegetable preppers, as Mark and Maddy will be joining them for the celebration dinner again, so Jim has done what Yseult's grandfather used to do, and has taken Zoe out for a walk. Tobogganing is off the menu, as there has never been so much of a flake of snow seen anywhere near to Terra Nova other than gracing the tops of the distant mountains, but she's not quite old enough to have the magic taken away, seated in front of a bowl with a heap of vegetables to peel, and there's not much else to keep her occupied in the interim.

Mira is standing on the balcony of the Command Centre, looking down at the muted activity with a tightly guarded expression. It's at times like this that she most keenly misses Sienna, wondering what she's doing, whether she's well. Whether she's even _alive_. Tomorrow will not be a celebration for her; so instead she has volunteered - well, more like insisted - to keep watch over the Colony while everyone parties. Once, that would've been a prime opportunity to spy, or steal. Now, however, it's a way of keeping herself from falling apart.

Jim's eye is caught by her rigid stance, and he sighs inwardly. The dislike and distrust that he once had for the remarkable woman that stands on the balcony has largely been replaced by respect. He'll never _like_ her - not after all that she's done - but he knows that she's doing the best she can to deal with a horribly cruel hand. He was lucky - he managed to get Zoe here. She, on the other hand, was not.

He can't really think of any reason to go up and talk to his deputy, so instead he continues on his way, stopping at the Memorial Garden with Zoe for a moment, before moving on in the direction of some rather fine looking fruit kebabs that have clearly caught her eye. Given that they won't be eating for a few more hours, he does not demur when she eyes them with artful hope. She may not be five anymore, but she still knows which buttons she can get away with pushing.

She is still working her way through the selection when they run into Skye, laden with a bag of various vegetables to take home to her mother, as they are hosting Commander Taylor again tomorrow. Tonight, however, they will be entertaining Josh, as they are now, more or less officially, an item, "Hi Mr Shannon."

"I think we've got past the Mr Shannon, Skye. 'Jim' will do just fine." He grins at her.

"All ready for tomorrow?"

"Mostly, I think. We've just escaped the tyranny of the kitchen - I'm just as dangerous with a kitchen knife as Zoe."

"D _aaaad_." Hell - now _she's_ got to 'that' age…

Skye laughs, recognising the familiar plaint of the young person embarrassed by a parent, "Enjoy it while it lasts, Zoe. When I get home, it'll be chopping city for the next hour and a half. I'm just grateful it's not onions." She leans in a little, "This is supposed to be a secret - but just in case you haven't heard, come back here about twenty hundred."

"Why?" Jim asks.

"You'll see."

"So you're not gonna tell me?"

"Nope." She smiles, sweetly.

* * *

It's been a wonderfully lazy day, staying at home with Malcolm, cooking a simple dinner before going all out tomorrow, as they've invited Pete and Louis to join them, and just stopping every now and again to hug, or kiss. She'd forgotten how nice it is to share a holiday with a loved one.

For Malcolm, on the other hand, it's been a rather strange experience. The box with the ring in it is in his pocket, and it's been a sequence of _shall I do it now?_ on and off for the entire day. Last year had been a wonderful day, having spent it with Yseult - but they'd still been barely courting then - now they're a couple, and he is still trying to find a really good moment to pop the question. While Ninette has made him a lovely shawl to give her tomorrow, he wants the biggest gift to be the ring - with all that it signifies. He just can't find the 'right' moment to do it. Either that or he's too scared she'll say no - even though it's more likely that Father Christmas will turn up in a flashing neon sleigh before that'll happen.

As evening draws in, the pair don coats and head out in search of the carollers. The news has spread - despite attempts to keep it a surprise - and they find that there are plenty of people making their way towards the sound of _Once in Royal David's City_ , which is, to most, the traditional first carol at any service. Some people have even brought lanterns.

"I wish I'd thought of that." Yseult grumps, good-naturedly.

Taylor is on his balcony again, watching in fascination as the sound of voices lifted in song seems almost to draw people like a magnet. Those who know the carols join in almost without thinking about it, and the chorus grows, accompanied by the occasional roaring or wailing of a dinosaur in the forests beyond the fence. It's the strangest accompaniment that he's ever heard to a carol service, that's for sure.

Gradually, the crowd swells as more and more people turn up. Those who know the carols keep on adding to the sound, while those who know only the tunes hum along instead. Even up on his balcony, above their heads, Taylor finds himself doing the same - somehow it's impossible to hear those familiar songs, and not join in. He's never seen anything like it, and neither has the Cretaceous.

The choir makes its way through all the well known favourites - and a few that hardly anyone can join in with because they're not well known, but they end with _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_ , which is as familiar an ending carol to those who know such things as _Once In Royal_ is a starter.

Even those who don't know the words are humming along, and they finish the final verse as a pterosaur wheels overhead, startled by the unfamiliar sound of a song that won't be written for another eighty-odd million years. The applause is loud and appreciative, and people seem most unwilling to disperse; someone - probably Pete - has kicked off _We Wish you a Merry Christmas_. It's the sort of thing he would do.

As people round off the song, Malcolm suddenly releases his arm from about Yseult's waist, and grasps her hand, pulling her into the open space where the choir are standing. He couldn't find a 'right' moment while they were alone - he wants to make his commitment as clear as he possibly can, and now he's found it.

Within a matter of seconds, the entire assembly has gone quiet - there isn't a soul present who hasn't figured out what he's planning to do, after all. Everyone's been waiting for this since Maddy threw her bouquet three months ago.

Fumbling in his pocket, he retrieves the box, and, casting his dignity to the wind, goes down on one knee in the traditional manner, "Yseult Maxwell," he says very solemnly, and nervously, "will you marry me?"

She stares at him, her expression one of such astonishment that, for a moment he is terrified that he's got it utterly wrong. Her eyes are glistening, and she seems barely able to speak, and it takes a few attempts before finally she is able to get the words out, "Yes - oh, yes - I will!"

The pair of them seem to be trembling as he opens the box and retrieves the ring that Sozume took so much care to create, and Yseult extends her left hand for him to gently ease it onto her ring finger. It's official. They're engaged.

"About damn time, too!" Taylor's voice roars across from the Command Centre balcony, "Let's hear it, people!"

Much to Malcolm's surprise, as he has never regarded himself to be even remotely popular, the entire place seems to erupt in cheers as he rises to his feet, and Yseult throws her arms about his neck. Sod it - who bloody cares how Niall did it? She's happy. He's happy. It's Solstice, and what would have been, but for her, the worst year of his life is nearly over. Things can only go up from here.


	33. New Life

**A/N** : Sorry - real life got in the way a bit, there! Now that everyone's on course for happy times. Here's another chapter to tide you over while I go off to Belgium for a week. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty Three

 _New Life_

Ninette examines the ring on Yseult's finger with almost minute attention, "It's beautiful, Max. Your fiancé chose very well - 'e 'as a good eye for colour." She looks up, "are you alright?"

Yseult nods, her eyes full of tears, "Yes, Ninette - I'm fine. It's a bit silly really - if I look at the ring for long enough, I start to cry. It's because I'm stupidly happy. Don't worry - I'm not regretting accepting Malcolm's proposal. Not for a single second. It's particularly embarrassing at home - I keep on grabbing hold of him and bursting into tears."

"That is no surprise. You and 'e nearly lost one another several times this year. When you fell in the river we all thought this would never 'appen - we were all so scared. When Pete pulled you from the water, we were all crying - you scared us so much."

"I would've preferred another way to get proof from you all how much you like me." Yseult smiles, then looks a little sad, "Poor Pam - this must be awful for her; she's lost Geoff, while I survived - and now I'm all overexcited and happy because Malcolm and I are going to get married."

"No." Ninette says, gently, "She grieves, yes - but she is 'appy as well for you because she wouldn't 'ave wanted you to die, too. I think, in some ways, it 'elps 'er to know that you still go on. She is a very, very brave woman."

"Braver than me, I think. If Geoff had been Malcolm, then I think I'd be on the floor and I wouldn't have got up even now." She sighs, "Did you know that Malcolm actually did think I was dead for a while? He only heard that I'd drowned - he wandered off in shock before the news came through that Pete got me back. For half an hour, he genuinely believed that he'd lost me. Jim Shannon actually found him at the gate: he was going to walk out and find something to kill him because he couldn't stand to be alive if I wasn't. After everything he'd been through, losing me was the last straw for him, I think."

"Thank God Jim found 'im." Ninette thinks for a moment, as though hesitating, then goes for it, "And what about Niall?"

"What about him?"

"'Ave you talked about 'im? 'E was the cause of your argument, was 'e not?"

"That's something that we can work on. I think Malcolm's realised that he's the one who was letting Niall get in the way of our relationship, not me. He knows how close we were - and I think sometimes he's afraid of that: that he can't measure up to Niall in some way or other. I think I've managed to convince him that he doesn't need to. I was happy with Niall, yes - of course I was. But he died, and now I have Malcolm, and he makes me happy, too. I only have to see the way he looks at me to know that I make him happy - have you ever seen what he looks like when he smiles: a real, unguarded smile? God, it makes my heart practically melt to see it."

"And 'e lets you put your 'and on 'is leg." Ninette grins at her.

Yseult nods, "Niall didn't like me to do that in public. He wasn't a particularly tactile person and he never got used to it - finding that Malcolm didn't mind in the slightest was a bit of a surprise, to be honest. He never came across as someone who wouldn't be bothered by a fiancée who can't keep her hands off him."

The pair look up as the door opens, "Are you two sobbing over that ring again?" Pete asks, with mock annoyance, "Honestly - am I the only person who works around here these days?"

"'Fraid so." Yseult smiles, as he hugs her, "It's only going to get worse once we start organising." She waves at Ninette as she leaves, "What time do you want us to come over tonight?"

"Whenever you want, really." Pete says, "Louis is nervous as hell - he's never hosted a festive dinner before. Hope you don't mind, but he's going to stick to something he knows and scale it up. I think he's planning on baking a xiph loin."

"That's the best way. I wouldn't even consider trying a recipe for the first time when cooking for guests. Always do what you know."

Pete nods, sagely, "I'll be glad to see the back of this year. It might be ending on a high, but it looked like going to hell for a bit, there."

"I know." Yseult agrees, "In some ways, this has been the best of my life - but in others, the worst. I'll be glad to leave the 'worst' stuff behind and concentrate on taking the 'best' with me." She goes silent for a while, "I think, Pete, that next year I'll move the forge. I thought it wouldn't matter - but it's still a bit of a struggle - there are times when I still see Mike trying to force Malcolm onto the furnace. Did you know he left a pair of tongs to heat on it? I think he might've been planning to threaten me with them to make me agree to accept him - but it didn't pan out that way. I fought back and he lost his temper with me instead - but he was going to use them on Malcolm until I threatened to brain him with the hammer."

Pete regards her, solemnly. She's put aside most of what happened that afternoon; but some of it's still lingering. It's only to be expected - no one recovers from something like that overnight, after all. Both she and Malcolm are still nursing wounds from their bad experiences, and he's seen how they are with each other enough to know that they'll work through it all together. But it's obvious to him that Mike's shadow still looms large over Yseult - though, oddly, it's now more over his cruelty to the man she loves than what he did to her.

"Do you blame yourself for what Mike tried to do to Malcolm?" he asks, eventually.

"I'm not sure." She admits, "I had no idea that he'd fixated on me - from what he was saying, I think it was something that started before we even came here. He kept his hatred of Niall hidden because we were married and he didn't want to make me dislike him, I suppose. I have no idea what he was thinking - whether he wanted an actual relationship with me or just sex - but, even now I still can't think of anything that I could've seen as a sign that he was obsessed with me. I assumed his rancour over Malcolm was down to his not being a craftsman or one of us. Or something."

"And?" Pete prompts, quietly.

"I've pretty much dealt with what he tried to do to me, Pete - yes; but…Mike tried to kill Malcolm - breaking into the labs to smash the catch on the scorpion's vivarium. I know it's impossible - but I can't stop thinking that he might've been behind Niall's death, too. It's stupid - he had nothing to do with that work party, or where they were at the time. They'd taken all the precautions that they could - and there's no one in this colony who goes OTG without accepting the inherent risks of doing so - but Mike wanted me, and given that he was prepared to harm Malcolm to get me makes me wonder if he tried to do the same to Niall."

"I don't think so, Max. If he'd done something to Niall, I think he would've admitted it when he was telling you what he did to Malcolm. I reckon it was only when the two of you got together that he really started to slip his gears. He thought he was in with a chance with you - and then you started seeing someone else."

Yseult nods, "It was horrible, Pete. Mike was so strong, and neither of us could fight him. If I hadn't threatened him with the hammer, he would've made me watch him torture Malcolm. I would've done anything to prevent that - and I did." She shudders, "Even hitting him with that bloody hammer wasn't enough. It was like the legends surrounding the murder of Rasputin."

"And that's what you can't let go, isn't it?"

She stares at the floor, "When I hit Mike with that hammer, I meant to kill him, Pete: I hit him as hard as I could. I may not be as strong as he is, but I'm a metalworker, so I'm not exactly lacking in strength myself. When he went down, I thought that I _had_ killed him. That was bad enough - but when he got up again…"

"You did what you did to save Malcolm, Max; don't forget that. The alternative doesn't bear thinking about; he would've killed Malcolm without a second thought, and God alone knows what he would've done to you - do you think he would've accepted the fact that the pair of you turned on him? Believe me - it's better this way. Besides, it was Taylor that finally brought it to an end, wasn't it? There's not a single thing that you did that wasn't justified as being self defence. Even if he _had_ survived, I have no doubt that Taylor would've exiled him - he would've been too dangerous to keep under house arrest. The two of you would've been on constant alert in case he escaped and came after you - and he would've loved that."

Yseult sighs, "I know. You're right, Pete. It's just hard to get that out of my conscious, rational mind into my unconscious, emotional one. Perhaps the move into the new year might help. We can draw a line under this and start again in a couple of days after the holiday. Preferably by moving the forge."

"Top of the list." Pete grins, giving her another hug, "Now, you go home and find something tarty to wear. I'll see you and the soon-to-be-Mr Maxwell tonight."

* * *

Maddy sits at her kitchen counter, nibbling at a slice of toast while Mark makes her a cup of tea. It's only now that she's realising just what a _long_ process pregnancy actually is. Nine months doesn't sound like a long period until one actually makes note of the passage of time. She's been showing properly now since January, and the final trimester gradually trundling along, leaving her feeling like the side of a house. With the prospect of maternity leave ahead, she's been obliged to put her plans for a Doctoral level research project on hold, so someone else is going to have to work on the yeasts, as that can't wait. Malcolm has, however, promised to find her a suitable alternative once she's back at work again - and, to her surprise given his own work ethic, he's made it very clear to her that he's going to find something that will suit a combination of working at home as much as at the labs. She is not, however, sure whether that was his idea or someone else's. Possibly Mom's.

Being the daughter of a doctor, and having witnessed Zoe's arrival, she is rather more aware of the processes of pregnancy than her nervous, youngest son husband. Setting the mug of tea down alongside her plate, Mark sits down beside her, "How are you feeling this morning?"

"I'm fine, Mark. The baby's been moving around a bit overnight, so I'm a little tired. I want to finish working up the newest analgesic compound this morning, so the sooner I get that done, the better. Then I can sit down and try to avoid my ankles swelling."

"I don't go on shift until ten. I'll walk you over to the labs."

"You don't have to." She smiles at him.

"I want to," he returns her smile, "I'm enjoying being a proud dad-to-be. And I like seeing the looks on people's faces now that you're showing."

"I'm not sure who's looking forward to our baby being born more - us or the rest of the Colony." She agrees, "Though the way my back feels, I can't say I'm not awaiting it with bated breath. Mom warned me about that, but I get the feeling it's something that descriptions don't prepare you for." She frowns slightly, "Or, for that matter, the endless rounds of diapers, dribble and sleepless nights."

"Is it too late to change our minds?" Mark jokes.

"I think it is." Maddy laughs, leaning up for a kiss.

"So." Jim says, leaning on the balcony rail, "When's the big day?"

Malcolm leans alongside, the pair waiting for Commander Taylor to return from meeting with a stallholder over some stupid dispute about their pitch, "The fourteenth of June, so we can catch the good weather before it gets too hot - and Max has her heart set on the orchard. Maddy's wedding there has turned it into something of a favoured spot: I think ours will be the third wedding in that clearing now that Jules and Patrick have used it."

It's odd. Now that he no longer views Malcolm as a threat - redundant or otherwise - to his marriage, Jim has found the man to be altogether more tolerable. That said, given that he has been obliged to rescue him from deadly situations twice, thereby seeing him in a highly vulnerable state, he's realising that there's a lot more to Malcolm Wallace than a mildly obnoxious personality and a history with his wife. Besides, the way that he looks at Yseult, that utter openness that she inspires in him; how much of that former stiffness was guardedness on his own part, and how much of it imposed upon him by an almost instinctive dislike of a rival? But then, until that incident in the labs during the occupation, where Malcolm advised him that he was working on the terminus to keep people alive - and then came up with the concussion ruse to deceive Weaver and Lucas, he hadn't believed the man was capable of an unprompted noble act. He was wrong, of course - but it's far easier to dislike someone if you can build a framework upon which to pin it. He had certainly never thought it could be possible that he might even manage to establish a friendship with him - though that's still very much at the 'lets see how it goes' stage.

He spots Elisabeth approaching from the infirmary, and then Yseult trots over to join her. He turns his head slightly to see how Malcolm reacts to the sight of his fiancée, and is not disappointed. God, he really adores her - just look at him; he can't take his eyes off her. That won't last forever, of course, but the obvious closeness they share when they're together suggests that the friendship that backs up love is as present with Malcolm and Yseult as it is with himself and Elisabeth. It was that combination that got him through the horrors of Golad, that inspired him to fight to join them as they embarked on the pilgrimage - and which rebuilt their relationship after two years of enforced separation.

"Hey." He greets his wife, who smiles and accepts his embrace, "Is it me, or are senior staff meetings more like a family gathering these days?"

"Are you suggesting that we adopt Commander Taylor?" Elisabeth jokes, "I really don't need a fifth child."

"Fifth?"

"Yes - Zoe, Maddy, Josh and you." She looks around him to Yseult, "You need to bear that in mind, Max. One day, you'll have two children - Malcolm and your first baby." She catches a slight frown on Yseult's face, "You will, Max. There's nothing wrong with you - it's just a case of waiting for things to settle."

"And in the meantime," Malcolm adds, his arms tight about her, "You've got Schmidt."

"God, look at the four of you." Taylor calls up, finally back from his dispute resolution exercise, "I take it you're going to concentrate on the briefing rather than each other?"

"That depends on how interesting it is." Jim grins at him.

* * *

The readings over the bio-bed look excellent, and Elisabeth smiles, pleased, "You're doing very well, Maddy. I think it won't be long now - the little one's head is down and engaged. Have you been noticing any Braxton Hicks contractions?"

Maddy nods, "I have, now and again."

Mark looks nervous, "How can you tell the difference between that and real labour?"

"She'll have been having them for months, Mark - but the pain they generate is so minor that most women don't notice it until the birth is imminent. Believe me, there's a difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing. I've had three children, and I'm a doctor so I know the difference - but most first time mothers don't. It's not until the real thing starts that you'll realise it." She smiles at him, "Don't worry Mark - she's doing fine. I'll go and fetch Sue in a minute so she can carry on with your ante-natal checks."

"But you'll be with me?" Maddy asks, at once.

"Of course." She smiles, "I don't expect you to need a surgeon, but I'm happy to be on standby as your mum. Besides, Mark might faint." She adds with a slightly wicked glint in her eye.

"Don't tempt me." He says, nervously.

Leaving them in the hands of her capable Floridian Midwife, Elisabeth returns to her office to transmit the results of the scan to Maddy's records, only to be disturbed by her beeper. Looking at it, she frowns; the address is not one she has visited - and she can't remember who lives there.

Guzman is waiting for her at the door when she hurries across with a medkit, "I don't think you'll need that, Doctor Shannon. He's dead."

"Who is?"

"Andrew Fickett."

Now she remembers, "Any sign of foul play?"

Guzman shakes his head, "No. Looks like natural causes - Carter didn't hear anything from him this morning and went in to check on him. Died in the night by the look of it."

Entering the house, she looks about with mild distaste. She has always felt guilty over her failure to take any notice of Maddy's concerns about the man when she first developed suspicions over who he claimed to be. Far from being a personal hero of hers, he had turned out to be a disgruntled failure who had stolen the acclaim of the man for whom he worked, and killed him in the process. But for Jim's insistence that his children have a means of surreptitiously calling for help, Maddy would've been found dead in the fields from a venomous spider bite, and no one would've been any the wiser. She can't keep the hostile expression from her face as she enters the bedroom.

From the doorway, Fickett looks as though he's merely sleeping, but for a small trickle of blood that has emerged from his nose. There's no indication that he woke, or that he struggled. It seems that Guzman's assessment may be right. His colouration suggests that he's been dead for several hours, but it'll take a post mortem to truly determine the cause of death, "Search the house, Deputy - he may have used something to finish it. Given what he knew of the local wildlife, there may be something in the disposal that he used. Be careful in case he did. I suspect it's going to be natural causes - but it's worth checking."

Maddy's left by the time she returns to the infirmary with a selection of blood samples for testing, though she'll undertake the full autopsy over in the research labs. As she sets the samples down, she wonders how Malcolm will react. He never liked Fickett, who had played up to his pretence of being the great Doctor Ken Horton to the point that he had completely disregarded Malcolm's status as Chief Science Officer - and happily insulted him, ignored his requests and treated him as a bumbling assistant. His admission that he helped Maddy to run a DNA scan was a rather guilty one, as it caused him to feel rather responsible for what followed - though he never capitalised on it by claiming that he had seen through the man's ruse. Jim might well have punched him if he had.

Looking at her schedule, she sighs. Nothing to deal with immediately - best to just get it over with, then.

She is not surprised when Malcolm comes over as she starts work. For all his virtues, or faults, he is - and admits to it - terribly nosy, "Andrew Fickett?"

Elisabeth nods, "He was found dead this morning. I'm just verifying the cause - we think it was natural causes, though I couldn't say anything for his mental state."

Malcolm shuffles slightly, "I'm not sure _what_ he was thinking, to be honest. He's been messaging me on and off ever since he was put under house arrest - if sending demanding notes courtesy of his security detail counts as messages. He expected to be given research work to do at home. It's as though his determination to keep up the pretence turned into a compulsion after Maddy exposed him."

"Did you ignore the notes?"

He shakes his head, "No - it seemed rude to do that. I would just send back messages reminding him that he was no longer a member of my science team. If he wanted to work independently, then that was his prerogative as a private citizen. His more recent messages tended to be demands for me to send equipment to his house to research samples from the plants he was growing in his back garden. He never really stopped treating me like some sort of lackey-cum-research assistant. His notes generally referred to me as 'Marcus', even though he knew damn well that wasn't my name."

He sits back and lets her work, and it doesn't take her long to determine the cause of death, "There it is - a cerebral haemorrhage. He died of a stroke - probably in his sleep."

"That's an irony and a half." Malcolm observes, "He had to pretend to have a limp because of Horton's stroke. Now he's had one himself." He pauses, "Are you going to tell Maddy?"

Elisabeth nods, "She should know. I'm not aware that she's ever really thought about him again - but that's probably more because she's kept it to herself if she has. Being a mother doesn't make me able to know what my children think."

"I'll bear that in mind." He smiles.

* * *

As he always does when a Colonist has no relatives to stand at the graveside, Taylor stands alongside the Chaplain. He is not that surprised to see Malcolm present, though he can't think of any worthwhile reason for him to be there other than perhaps a sense of relief that the man is now gone. What _does_ surprise him, however, is Maddy standing alongside her boss, her expression sad even as she strokes her hand gently over her swollen abdomen.

The burial is simple, and there is no eulogy - what, after all, could anyone say about the man in the grave other than that he was a selfish fraud who was willing to kill to maintain his pretence? With nothing to say, both the Chaplain and Taylor withdraw as soon as the limited ceremony is over, leaving the burial party, Malcolm and Maddy.

"Are you alright?" he asks, after a few minutes of silence.

She nods, "Yes - I'm not here for any particular reason. I suppose it's because I wanted to honour the real Doctor Horton. He said such horrible things about him, and I began to doubt whether I was right to believe that the real man was the hero I'd turned him into."

"I never met Ken Horton." Malcolm admits, "He was still in the field when I was at Trinity, so our paths never crossed. From what I was told about him, though, he was more like the man you thought him to be than the man Fickett did. I worked with a few of his other research assistants, and they never had anything but praise for him as an academic and a mentor. I suppose Fickett wasn't as capable as they were, and Horton knew it. I should've seen it from the results of his work, I suppose - but I didn't. I assumed that it had deteriorated because of his stroke - and I was as in awe of the real Horton as anyone else, so I was completely taken in."

Maddy nods, "I suppose we all were, at first…" then she pauses, and pulls a face.

"What?"

"I think I might go back to see Mom." Her hand is on her abdomen again, and the meaning could not be more clear.

"Oh, bloody hell," Malcolm realises what's happening, "Come on. Let's go."

* * *

Elisabeth is, naturally, far calmer than either of her arrivals when she looks up to see Maddy and Malcolm in her office, "Does it feel different from the Braxton Hicks?" she asks.

Maddy nods.

"Have you been timing the contractions?"

Maddy shakes her head.

"I'll go and find Mark," Malcolm offers nervously, and bolts.

"I hope he's not like that when Yseult has her first child." Elisabeth smiles at her daughter, "Don't worry - there's plenty of time. Have your waters broken yet?"

"I don't know." She admits.

"Which means they haven't." Elisabeth's calm is in direct inverse proportion to her daughter's nerves, "Come on. Let's go and join Sue - we've had the maternity suite available for several days - you're our only expectant mother who's due."

"You won't go, will you Mom?" Maddy asks.

"Not unless you ask me to." She smiles, I've already got colleagues on call so they can take over while I'm with you. Do you really think I'd miss this?"

Thumping footsteps behind them indicate the hasty arrival of the now-equally-nervous father, and Elisabeth turns to see that Mark has gone a most remarkable colour - pale, and yet flushed by running, "You can't come in wearing those fatigues. Go and have a word with Nurse Ogawa, she'll get you some scrubs to change into. This isn't going to happen in the next few minutes, so you've got plenty of time."

"Where's Dad?" Maddy suddenly asks, her face creasing again at the pain of another contraction.

"Malcolm's gone to find him." Mark reports, before hastening off to find suitable clothing for the maternity suite.

"Come on, Maddy." Elisabeth smiles, "Let's get this little one into the world, shall we?"

The news has spread around the Colony at remarkable speed - as such things do amongst a limited population. Even those who have no connection to the Shannons are on tenterhooks, but for those who do, the wait seems interminable. God alone knows what it must be like for those who are actually present. Josh, needless to say, is pacing back and forth, while Skye does what she can to keep Zoe occupied. Being a little too young yet to be present for the birth, while Josh is far too squeamish, Zoe is full of questions, and inevitably resents the fact that she is being kept away.

"If you were there, Zo," Josh advises, "You'd wish you weren't."

Skye smiles at him, "Would you be this squeamish if it was me?"

He has the grace to go a bright cherry red, "I'd probably have thrown up or fainted by now." He admits.

She laughs, "I think you'd be surprised."

"If I hadn't, then I definitely would be."

"That's gross." Zoe objects, though not entirely seriously.

"Part of being a woman, I'm afraid, Zoe." Skye commiserates.

* * *

Standing on his balcony outside the Command centre, Taylor watches as the sky darkens into night. Another baby on the way - another new Colonist. Life goes on for some, while for others it ends. And thus the cycle is maintained, "Shannon will become a grandfather tonight - or tomorrow." He addresses the empty air, "I guess it's too late for me - but then, everyone sees me as the universal grandfather, and maybe Skye will do the honours, eh?"

There's no answer. There never is.

He sighs, and continues his vigil.

* * *

Yseult looks at her watch, "How long is it now?"

"About eight hours." Malcolm confirms, having been present when it began, "I don't know how long it's likely to last. I left before Elisabeth got technical - though I'm not sure if that was down to feeling that it wasn't my place to be there, or just sheer squeamishness. I've never been present at a birth."

She leans closer to him, her eyes sad, "I'm beginning to wonder if you ever will."

"What?"

"How long has it been now? Nearly a year? I'm starting to think that it's never going to happen - no matter what Elisabeth says." Then she sighs, "In some ways, Maddy being in labour makes it all worse - she's achieving where I've failed."

Rather than patronise her with pointless words that are meant to be 'comforting', Malcolm tightens his arms about her, "I love you, Max. Plain and simple. Whatever happens, that will never change, I promise."

"It might." She whispers, nearly in tears, "I'm starting to watch the calendar now - trying to monitor my cycle to find out when I'm at my most fertile. It's almost all I can think of, and I'm terrified it's going to dominate every aspect of my life before long. I want to have your children - and I can't."

Gently, he guides her shoulders so that she's facing him, but says nothing; looking into her eyes, then leaning down to kiss her. He has no idea how to relieve her of the burden she's imposed upon herself. Yes, he'd love to have children with her - but, if not, he wants _her_. To be forced to go back to the crushing sterility of his life before he met her is such a ghastly thought that he would give anything to help her believe that conceiving is _not_ a requirement of their coming marriage; but telling her that isn't going to help. It something she needs to learn and accept by herself.

She accepts his kiss without hesitation. She knows he loves her, after all; and her hands come up to his face to hold him. Such is their passion for one another that it doesn't take much more than that to arouse her, or him, for that matter, and she is soon lifting her top and fumbling with her bra to remove it, before reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

On a shelf, above their heads, a small antique clock strikes the hour - but such is their focus upon one another that its chimes go unheard.

Zoe is fast asleep. Despite her assertion that she would see it through - just to prove to Josh that she _is_ old enough to deserve to be present in the infirmary - she dropped off just after eleven. Sitting together on the couch, Josh and Skye have run out of things to say to one another, and sit quietly, almost willing the plex to chime with a message alert. How long now? It's probably getting close to dawn out there - and still nothing.

"D'you think something's gone wrong?" Josh asks, nervously.

Skye shakes her head, sleepily, "No. Apparently it took me nearly a day to make my appearance. I think it's been around thirteen hours or so - but there's no telling when your nephew or niece is going to arrive. Labours are different every time. I imagine your mom would tell you that. If there was a problem, your mom would let you know."

"I'm beginning to wish I'd gone there now."

"Why? It won't make the baby come any faster, and it's better that Zoe's got family at home with her. I think it'd freak you out a bit, to be honest - labour's not exactly painless."

He nods, sighs, and slips his arm about her shoulders. He is not surprised as the weight of her head increases. She's fallen asleep.

Mark has been astonishing - he has neither thrown up, nor fainted. Nor has he fled from the room in panic or burst into tears - all of which Elisabeth has personally witnessed in her time. Instead, he has sat beside Maddy, held her hand, poured out water if she's wanted a drink, supported her if she's wanted to walk around and even endured the several occasions when she's screamed abuse at him during the pain of a contraction. Jim has been in and out several times, though he is struggling rather to see his baby going through such an experience, despite knowing full well that it's perfectly natural, and everything is progressing as it should. While Sue is offering pain relief, Maddy seems quite determined to rely upon as little medication as possible - though as the latter stages are under way, she seems to be revising that position.

Groaning as another contraction wanes, she looks about, and clutches at Mark's hand. She's just roundly insulted him again, for the apparently heinous sin of dabbing at her forehead with a cool cloth, but he seems to know that it's not out of genuine ire, and is taking it with stoic aplomb. Besides, her grasping of his hand is proof to him that all is well on that front.

"You're fully dilated, Maddy." Sue reports, "If you feel the need to push, then now's the time. Okay?"

"Believe me," Maddy blurts, breathlessly, "I feel it!"

Sitting outside, Jim tenses as his daughter's voice rises again in pain, and effort now, accompanied by that time honoured exhortation to push, and then the magic words 'I can see the head!'. It's nearly over, then. Cross with himself for his squeamishness, he waits for a moment of quiet and sneaks back inside again.

Sue is at the business end, while Mark is to Maddy's left, and Elisabeth is to her right. Hastily, he joins his wife, who looks at him with a tearful, excited smile, and clasps his hand. Not much longer, and he will be greeting his first grandchild.

The chime of his plex yanks Josh from a light doze, Skye still fast asleep on his shoulder. The sudden movement brings her to wakefulness, too, and she looks at him, as he stares nervously at the device in case it might be bad news. Finally, he curses himself for his nerves, and leans forward.

"Well?" Skye asks him, nervously.

He is silent for a moment, but then turns to look at her with relief and real joy, "It's a girl."


	34. You are Cordially Invited

And I'm back from Belgium (Bruges - absolutely wonderful place; if you can ever get there, you should!), armed with copious quantities of chocolate, of course. This chapter will make you very happy, Leona. Tissues at the ready!

Chapter Thirty Four

 _You are Cordially Invited_

Zoe's emotions are a complicated bundle of excitement and nerves at meeting the baby that is, she's told, her niece. The concept of being an aunt seems utterly foreign to her, given that she's not yet ten and every story she's ever read seems to cast aunts as being elderly. She is, nonetheless, pleased to finally be allowed to see her elder sister having been banned from the delivery itself.

It's been several hours, as Maddy has needed to sleep for a while - and she is still resting when the family enter. That said, she has the little girl in her arms, having only been apart from her for the time that she was asleep; and she seems quite loath to let her go. Even Mark has struggled so far to get a look in, though his expression at the moment seems to be a combination of tiredness and shell-shock.

Being as young as she is, she still retains the forthright nature of a child, and is not afraid to show her keenness to see the new arrival. Carefully, Mark helps her to sit on the bed so that she can see better, and Maddy introduces them, "Here she is, Zoe. Your niece."

"What's her name?" Zoe asks, immediately - unaware of the sometimes delicate nature of family politics in such matters.

Maddy and Mark share a glance; they'd decided this long ago, it seems - one name for a boy, another for a girl - and he looks across at his In-Laws with a smile, "We've decided to call her Elisabeth Rose - after her grandmothers."

Jim is not surprised to see Elisabeth's hand flee to a pocket for a tissue. Nor is he surprised to find that he is likely to need one himself.

The news is all around the colony by lunchtime, and everyone is overjoyed. Even Yseult seems happy, though there is still that slight shadow given her own wish to conceive. She is, however, doing all that she can to hide it - and no one seems to notice other than Malcolm, who has learned to become startlingly astute to her moods. As it will be a few weeks yet before any proper celebrations are held - largely to give the new family some space - things will quieten down in a day or so. At present, however, Yseult is, like Mira, struggling to deal with another's joy in motherhood in the face of her own circumstances.

As they walk home from the market, where Maddy's baby has been the talk of every stall, Malcolm holds Yseult very, very close. Much as he would like to have children now that there's a clean safe world for them to grow up in, the thought of exchanging that for his life with her is so appalling that he can't begin to contemplate it. If he can't have Yseult _and_ children, then he will do without children - the ghastly half hour when he thought her to be dead is proof enough to him that he couldn't accept any other choice. The fact that she is starting to think that she's failed him in some way is painful, because he can't seem to convince her otherwise. Her menstrual cycle has certainly settled - no one who lives in intimate contact with a woman can miss that - but nature seems to be taking its time, and convincing her that she's infertile in the process.

He is not surprised, as he sets their shopping down on the counter, when she bursts into tears; so he abandons it to enfold her in his arms. Words don't help - he's tried often enough and it's made no difference - so he relies upon close contact instead. After a while, she calms - no one can cry forever, after all - and hugs him back, "I'm sorry."

"I know. You don't need to be, though."

He sits her down on the couch, then hastily puts the shopping away and makes her a cup of tea before joining her, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't want to bore you." She says, quietly.

"You're unhappy, Max. I know I can't magically make things better, but I don't want you to think that you're alone in this - you're too important to me."

"I just wish I could get pregnant. We're a couple - and everyone's waiting for the moment when I announce we've got a baby on the way."

"They are?" Malcolm asks, bemused, "What's it got to do with anyone else?" he is quite convinced she's imagining such a degree of scrutiny, but he's not going to say so. She considers it to be the case; so, to her at least, it's very real.

She doesn't say anything, so he hugs her again, "Let's just concentrate on getting married first - I want to make that commitment to you, Max, more than anything. I remember lying on the floor in a tent in the Badlands, feeling like hell and promising myself that, if I survived, I'd bloody well ask you to marry me. It took me months to do it, but, after everything that happened last year, I want to put it behind me once and for all. I want to marry _you_ , Max - not a pregnancy, not the scrutiny of a colony. You're the most precious thing in my life, and I can't think of a more clear way of demonstrating that to you than making vows to that effect in front of our friends. The worst thing that ever happened to me was hearing you scream - until I thought that you were dead: then _that_ became the worst thing that ever happened to me." Suddenly his eyes are filling with tears, "I wanted to die, Max - when I heard you'd drowned. I couldn't face living if you were gone - if I lost you, then I don't know what I'd do."

They hold on to one another for a long, long time, until Yseult looks up at him, "I agree - let's get married first. I promise I'll stop looking at the calendar - or, at least, I'll try."

"I'm not asking you to stop looking at the calendar." He smiles at her, "As long as it's to tick off the days until the fourteenth."

* * *

The party to welcome Elisabeth Rose into the community is a merry affair, beginning with a few words out in the Marketplace from Commander Taylor, whose assessment that he is becoming a form of universal grandfather seems to be rather prophetic. He cradles her briefly, and smiles at her - partly because she's a welcome addition to the community, and partly because she's probably the first baby born in the last couple of years that _hasn't_ had his or Wash's name tagged on somewhere.

While at least six people have offered to babysit while Maddy and Mark join the celebrations for the birth of their own child, no one is overly surprised that she's declined. While she is as shellshocked as her husband at the sudden appearance of a brand new human being in her life, she is dealing with the upheaval well, and the pair remain throughout the afternoon, but take little Elisabeth home with them as the evening draws in.

"Come on, you two." Pete crosses to join Malcolm and Yseult, who are still sitting in the marketplace as twilight falls and people dance around them to a jaunty tune from the folk band, "You've only got another two and a half weeks before it's your turn to be the centre of attention. Why not revel in the anonymity for a bit longer on the dance floor?"

"Come on." Malcolm stands and extends his hand to her, "Don't you normally have to drag me up there? How about I startle the hell out of you by doing it the other way round?"

For what feels like the first time in days, she laughs, and allows him to lead her into the dance.

* * *

"I didn't realise how difficult this was going to be." Yseult sighs, looking at the paper with a combination of disgust and concern, "I've never had to face a balancing act like this before."

Malcolm sighs as he sits beside her, "I know what you mean - we've got to get this right, or it's going to be an utter mess."

"How did Maddy and Mark manage it?"

"I have no idea."

They've been poring over the seating plan for the wedding breakfast for nearly three hours - trying to make sure that no one is seated next to someone they can't stand, or that they're not on a table so far away from the top table that they feel insulted. National borders have been settled more easily.

Sal has offered to look after the event again, and given the remarkable success of the previous two that she's overseen, it's an offer that they have been keen to accept. She can't, however, work out where people are going to be seated. Similarly, Ninette has banned them from the decoration of the orchard, and each of them are to be fitted with something new to wear. All they have to do is decide who gets invited, and who comes to the party later on. Another task of truly terrifying diplomatic proportions.

At least they've sorted out the most important issues - Pete is giving Yseult away; and to the surprise of both parties, Malcolm has turned to Jim to stand with him. There would've been a time when he would've asked Rob - before Rob tried to kill him, that is. Thanks to their history, there's no one else in the Colony who knows Malcolm as well as Jim does. The only alternatives are work colleagues with whom he gets on; and that's not really the point of a Best Man.

As with Maddy and Mark, they're keeping numbers relatively small, though it seems to Malcolm that this is probably because he's only got work colleagues to invite, and they don't view him in the same light that Yseult's team view her. It would look very oddly unbalanced otherwise. Even though he has lost a lot of the more annoying traits that drove people away from him, people still tend to view him as a bit stuck up, and it's taking a while for him to overcome it.

At length, they have something that they feel is likely to please everyone - or, at least, not offend people too much, "I'll take this to Ninette tomorrow." Yseult says, rubbing at her tired eyes, "She's got someone who's going to do place cards. Honestly, I think we'd be lost without her - she's going to have to set up as the Colony's wedding planner at this rate. If it wasn't for her, we'd be in an utter mess."

"Not really." Malcolm muses, "I would've happily settled for a quick ceremony in front of Commander Taylor if need be - but I can't complain about this - I wanted to make a clear commitment to you, and this'll certainly do that."

She glares at him, though not seriously, "There is _no_ way I'd accept an unromantic set of 'I wills' in front of Commander Taylor."

He laughs, "I'm well aware of that - I wouldn't dare mention it with any seriousness. I'm just the support act, after all. When are you visiting Ninette for your fitting?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. I have absolutely no idea what she's made for me - she wants it to be a surprise on as many fronts as possible. And you're banned from seeing it until I walk up the aisle."

"That'll be difficult if I'm here when you're getting dressed."

"Don't be silly. You'll be at the Shannons' house."

Matters progress with astonishing ease, as the organisation is in the hands of others. Sitting at his workstation, Malcolm feels rather redundant; except for one thought that keeps going around in his head: _I'm getting married in two days' time_. If he were younger, he might've considered having a stag night, but he has begged Jim not to arrange one, partly because he doesn't feel it's appropriate at his age, but mostly because he's terrified that Jim will do something to stitch him up. He has already had one nightmare about waking up with only one eyebrow - though better that than being buried in scorpions. He hasn't had _that_ particular dream for months, and he's grateful for it.

Now that it's so close, the nerves are starting to set in. He doesn't regret his decision, not for a moment, but with everything out of his hands, he lacks a sense of control over what will happen on the day. Ninette has issued Jim with a strict set of instructions, but otherwise he has no idea what to expect, and that is something to which he is _resolutely_ unused.

Yseult also seems nervous - or at least he thinks so. She was very quiet this morning over breakfast, so he decides, when he gets home later, to see if she's alright. Tomorrow, he will be decamping to Jim's. Josh is spending that night at the Tate's house to make room for him, while Ninette, and a few other of Yseult's friends will spend the evening pampering her and making sure she gets a good night's rest before the big day.

She's at home when he gets in, looking pensive. Concerned, he joins her on the couch, "What is it?"

"You didn't hear me in the night?" she asks, quietly.

He shakes his head, "I'm sorry, no; if you had a bad dream, why didn't you wake me?"

"I'm wishing that I had - but it seemed unfair to do it when you were still asleep. I must've coincided with a deep phase in your sleep cycle."

"What happened?"

"I had a nightmare about Mike." She admits, quietly, "He killed you."

Malcolm's eyes widen, and he quickly slips his arms around her, "Oh, Max. I'm sorry. I wish I'd woken up."

"I want to go to his grave." She says, suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"I think we need to confront him. And I need to visit Niall, too."

For the first time, he doesn't stiffen at the mention of his predecessor's name, "Do you want to go now?"

"I think so. Before I chicken out."

To most who see them, they look like they're out for an early evening walk, as they share their now-habitual closeness. Somehow, they've perfected the art of being astonishingly close together when walking, but not tripping each other up. People nod greetings as they pass, while others further away wave. In two days' time, they'll be the absolute centre of attention in the Colony; this is just the run-up. It's also something else that Malcolm is utterly unused to. Most people tend to gloss over him - he's there, but of no interest.

The two graves they intend to visit are at opposite ends of Memorial Field. Mike has been buried in the same corner as Lucas, and Andrew Fickett also lies here, too. The place where those who are absolutely unlamented are condemned to spend eternity. She stands over the grassy spot, marked only with a simple square stone so that people don't accidentally dig up the same place in future years.

"I trusted you, Mike." Yseult says, quietly, "I thought you were my friend, and you betrayed that trust. You tried to take Malcolm from me, and I want you to know that I will always be grateful that you failed. But that's it. You are nothing to me now; nothing at all. Tomorrow, I'll be spending time with my friends as I get ready to marry the man that I love. You failed - and this is the last time that I will ever think about you, or remember you. I am not responsible for what you tried to do, and I'm not responsible for your death. There are no goodbyes. You have no place in my life, and I won't let you sneak in and try to take up residence. This is the one and only time I will stand at your graveside. I won't ever be back."

She squeezes Malcolm's hand, and he smiles at her as they walk away. He is, to be honest with himself, far less keen to visit the other grave - but the last time he threw a stupid tantrum over Niall, he nearly lost her.

"Come on." She says, "I want you to hear this, too."

Niall's grave is far better placed, and the marker here is much finer - a well ground granite. Yseult has lot count of the times she's been up here, but today is the last time. She needs to move on, and she knows he'll understand.

"Hi Niall," she says, "I want to introduce you to Malcolm - he's the man who picked me up and reminded me how precious it is to be loved, and the day after tomorrow, he'll be my husband. I won't ever forget the times we shared; they're a part of me and they always will be - but I think we both know it's time for me to move on. You always used to tell me that the one thing you didn't want was to leave me to spend the rest of my days in widow's weeds if you died. I thought you were being morbid, or just joking; but now I realise what you meant. Thank you for loving me - I'll always have that in my heart. But it's time to say goodbye, and start living the rest of my life." She kisses the tips of her fingers, and presses them to the headstone; then turns to Malcolm, "Let's go home."

"You don't have to do that, Max." He says, as they walk away, "I would never object to you going up there on Commemoration day, or on the anniversary."

"I know - but if I keep hanging on, then I'll always have that holding on to me: I need to make a clean break. Maybe in a few years I'll do that - but right now, I want to concentrate on my life with you."

He smiles at her, "I love you." Hugging together, they turn and head for home.

* * *

Malcolm wakes and looks about, bemused. For one, he is in a single bed; for the other, the room is utterly unfamiliar. Which it would be, being Josh Shannon's.

He has no hangover, and a rather tentative exploration with his fingertips reveals that he still has both eyebrows, much to his relief. While he is quite certain that Jim would not deliberately humiliate him on his wedding day, he can't quite believe that there won't be at least one prank.

Then he pauses.

 _Wedding day_.

He sits up, and looks across at the simple linen suit that Ninette has made for him. He's not fool enough to think that it was done for his benefit - Ninette wants Yseult's day to be as perfect as possible, and thus the groom must complement the bride. Lord, that's the worst thing about all of this; he won't see her until Pete walks her up the aisle. How ridiculous is that? He's spent one night without her, and only for the sake of tradition, and even now he's missing her.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable in an unfamiliar house, he looks out of the room to find no one around. There wouldn't be - Elisabeth, mindful of his dignity, has gone to stay with friends, taking Zoe with her, so it's just him - and her husband. God, didn't someone make a comedy about two men rattling around a house? What was it called? He can't remember.

Rather than risk ruining the suit by spilling coffee on it, he pulls a shirt and cargo pants out of the bag he brought with him and dresses in that for the time being. He has no idea where anything is in this house, and he is still looking for something to make a hot drink when Jim emerges, "Try the next one on the left. Elisabeth got some coffee in."

The pair sit with their drinks, and Jim looks across at him, "Ready?"

Malcolm nods, "I've been ready for months - I just wasn't ready to ask her." He looks at the clock, "I think I might go and see how Sal's getting on."

"If Ninette sees you wandering around, she'll think you're trying to catch a glimpse. She'll skin you." Jim warns.

"Perhaps; but given that everyone's in control of all of this except me, I'm finding it a bit hard not to be climbing the walls at the moment." He admits, "I'm not used to that."

"Fine." Jim swallows the last of his coffee, "Come on - if you're with me, I might be able to stem the flow of French invective."

The air is mild as they emerge, walking together along the gravel path up to the marketplace. Now that he has effectively made peace with his version of the man he thought Malcolm was, Jim has no difficulties sharing his company, and their conversation is convivial. From a distance, it's clear that work is already underway at the bar, and Sal sees them coming. Surprisingly, she hastens over to stop them rather than waving, "Ninette's in there, Jim. I think you two should head in any direction that's not the Bar or your house, Malcolm. She'll give you hell if you go and look."

"Oh, great," Malcolm frets, "I'm not even allowed to see the bar?"

"No. Sorry!" Sal is grinning, "Don't worry. You'll like it - and Max will love it."

He smiles then, "Even if people want to wind me up, they'd never do that to her. I'll leave you to it."

"Good idea."

Instead, they turn away and walk back through the residential areas in a large loop that will give them some air, keep Malcolm from going stir crazy, and stop them from accidentally running into anyone associated with the bride.

"I still remember the look on your face when Elisabeth introduced us." Jim says, as they stroll.

"I imagine it was a picture." Malcolm admits, "I was a bit taken aback to see you - I thought you were a dead man walking. I'm sorry."

"We're past that, Malcolm. These days, I'm more inclined to be grateful that you paved the way for us all to get out of that dying world and into this one." He cocks an eyebrow, "However murky your motives were."

Malcolm shakes his head, "She never loved me the way she loves you. Even I could see that - I can see that even more now that I have Max. I know I came across as behaving like I had no idea she'd come through, but that was because I didn't want her to know that I'd recruited her - not at that point, at least - because she would've thought I had an ulterior motive. Even if I _had_ attempted some sort of campaign to win her over, it would never've worked - no matter whether you were there or not. She would've accepted friendship from me, but nothing more. Our relationship was in the past, and it was pretty obvious that it was destined to stay there. What mattered at that point was her expertise - we needed her, and I thought it would be a new start for her, Maddy and Josh given that you were in Golad - and after what happened to my father in Barlinnie, I really thought you wouldn't make it to the end of your sentence. I didn't know about Zoe."

"Barlinnie?" Jim asks. While he knows some of Malcolm's past, the name is unfamiliar.

"It's a prison near Glasgow, Jim."

"Your father was in prison?" Jim opts to keep up the pretence that he doesn't know about Malcolm's father's fate.

"The Edinburgh hearings - remember? I mentioned them to you and Commander Taylor once, didn't I? He was indicted for sedition and imprisoned. He died there."

"Your father was Scottish?"

"So was I, once."

" _You_ were? Well - that explains the accent."

"Pardon?"

"When we were in the Badlands, you were hallucinating - and you were talking to me in a Scottish accent."

"I was? Bloody hell, I didn't realise I could still do that. I don't think I could do it now if you paid me."

He seems not to want to divulge any further information, and Jim opts not to push it, as he already knows. Instead they return to Jim's house, and he dispatches Malcolm off to shower and change, while he gathers together the bits and pieces that he, as Best Man, will need.

"Rings. Check. Speech. Check…"

As noon hoves into view, the pair are ready. Jim has not been given anything specific to wear, so he has rooted out the smartest clothing he has - effectively his 'father of the bride' suit, without the tie as Ninette has decreed that they are not required; though why the hell she didn't for Maddy's wedding, he has no idea. Malcolm looks very dapper in his linen suit, a crisp white shirt under the pale cream jacket. One of the cobblers has made him a decent pair of oxfords, as he can't really get married in his heavy walking boots.

"Ready?" Jim asks him again.

"God, yes. Let's get out there."

Taylor is already present when they arrive in the clearing, and his expression as Malcolm looks about at the decoration in astonishment seems almost paternal. Like most people, he is deeply fond of Yseult, and the fact that she is finally marrying the man who makes her so utterly happy goes some way to compensating him for his own losses in that department. He knows what it is to love someone - even if he lost her - and no matter how much he regrets not taking up with Wash, the fact that he was privileged to spend a portion of his life in her company is at least something.

As with Maddy's wedding, there are swags of linen across the aisle, tied between the outstretched branches of the trees. They've been decorated with some sort of Nordic or Germanic design in a bronze-coloured paint, while at the far end, the arbour has been resurrected, and the wicker arch is alive with early roses. The Chaplain is standing ready, white tippet over his sober suit again, and people are gathering. Over in the corner, the folk band is playing a simple shaker song.

"I can't believe this is happening." Malcolm murmurs, nervously.

"Don't you dare even think about running."

"Are you kidding? This is incredible. I'd say it was like a dream, but that would sound unremittingly mushy, so I won't."

"I'll go with that."

Ninette's appearance is the first hint they have that Yseult has arrived, in much the same fashion as Maddy did, aboard a converted flat-bed rhino. As she comes in, however, her dress is entirely different - Ninette and Jacinta, it seems, have singularly pushed the boat out this time. Her dress is a long, full skirted affair of cream cotton that is carefully cinched in at her waist with elaborate lacing, and long flowing sleeves that give her the look of a nordic princess. Her hair has been carefully plaited, and she is crowned with a garland of summer flowers. It's not only Malcolm who stares at her as she makes her way up the aisle.

"Oh, my God, you're wonderful." He whispers, unable to stop himself.

"Thank you. So are you." She smiles back.

The Chaplain's greeting is simple, and perhaps a touch perfunctory given that only the Bride professes to any particular faith. No one makes a sound as he asks if anyone knows of any reason why the couple should not marry; though Malcolm feels Yseult tense slightly as though she imagines that Mike will rise up from his grave and interrupt the silence. Like Mark and Maddy before them, they have eschewed the traditional vows, and Malcolm faces Yseult, taking her hands in his.

"I never thought this day would come," he begins, a little nervously, "I suppose I'd got used to being alone. Until that day in the labs when you first called me by name, I think I'd become so convinced that there wasn't anyone out there for me that I'd more or less decided that I preferred it that way. I suppose that was why I took so long to get up the nerve to even think about asking you out - even though I kept on bottling out until that moment when you smudged soot all over my face."

He pauses at a ripple of amusement from the congregation.

"When I made it my mission in life to come to Terra Nova," he continues, "I didn't imagine for a moment that I'd find someone to share that life with. And then I found you. Even now, I still have to pinch myself from time to time to prove to myself that I'm not dreaming - but after everything that's happened in the last year, I know one thing: you're my safe haven, a rock of stability and love that kept me from being swept away. All I want is to be with you, to be your husband - and live the rest of my life at your side. I promise that I will give you the whole of my heart, that I will stand with you through the good times and the bad, because I don't think I could live without you."

For a moment, they stand in silence, as though lost in that moment, before Yseult picks up.

"When I came to Terra Nova, I was embarking on a new life with my husband, and taking my first steps into a clean, new world. We shared the wonder of the stars in the night sky, an existence free of rebreathers and choking smog. When Niall died, I really thought my life was over. And then I found you.

"I'd given up hoping that I'd get back that sense of close partnership with a loved one, but I was just marking time, because you gave it back to me. I can share all the wonders that this incredible place has to offer us, a new life in a new world. So I promise you that I'll give you the whole of my heart, and I will stand with you in the good times and the bad. I want to be your wife, because I love you with that whole of my heart; and, if you couldn't bear to live without me, then I know that I couldn't bear to live without you."

Once again, they seem lost in each other. Shuffling slightly, Jim is aware of a startling number of sniffs and honks into tissues. He is almost wishing he had a tissue to hand himself.

Their promises made, Malcolm and Yseult exchange the rings: two elaborately wound miniature ropes of gold wire that must've taken Sozume weeks to perfect. It's true - Yseult is extraordinarily popular. Malcolm knows full well that no one would be so determined to provide such wonderful things for him. Not that he minds: they might love her - but nothing like as much as he does.

And then the Chaplain is inviting him to kiss his new wife. As though he needs prompting, dammit. Somewhere, off in the distance, he can hear people cheering - but for him, right now, there's not another person in the whole world.

* * *

The reason for his being banned from the bar becomes clear to Malcolm almost at once, as they arrive aboard the rhino to be greeted with applause from everyone who couldn't be at the ceremony. The 'germanic' look has continued here - and it looks as though Ninette has tried very, very hard to make the place look like Valhalla. There are rumours that Julia has actually managed to find wild honey, and thus has concocted some mead - though he'll believe that when he sees it.

"Is there a Nordic goddess of love?" He asks Yseult, clutching her hand tightly.

She nods, "She's called Freyja." Her smile becomes a touch wicked, "She's also the Norse Goddess of sex."

"Maybe later."

" _Definitely_ later. We've got a marriage to consummate." She laughs as he reddens, "Look at that - even the cake's got runes on it. I bet they don't make any sense."

"You can read runes?"

"I didn't just bash metal for my degree, Malcolm. Norse culture was one of my study fields - I learned to read runes as part of my Masters." She checks them, "Actually they do."

"They do?"

"Someone's got that from the Eye - they must've done. Yes, they have - they're from the Bergen Rúnakefli."

"Can you translate them?"

"Naturally." She smiles, smugly, "That one says _ost min kis mik -_ which means 'My love, kiss me; while that one there says _mun þumik man fik un þu mer an ekþ_ , which means 'Remember me, I remember you; love me, I love you.'"

"What was that first one again?" Malcolm asks, "Hang on, I remember." holding her tightly, he kisses her.

As with the wedding itself, the celebrations are a success. The rumours about the mead turn out to be true, and Julia has surpassed herself with the quality. Fortunately there's not that much, so no one has got drunk and made a fool of themselves. Pete, standing in for the Father of the Bride, has given a speech that is surprisingly lacking in his usual brand of sarcastic foolery, and instead serves to highlight to everyone just how much she matters to those on her team. He squeezes her hand as he finishes off with a very audible lump in his throat, and sits down to delighted applause.

Malcolm can't help but feel a sense of nerves as Jim rises to his feet to do the honours as the best man. So far, as he promised, he has done nothing to humiliate, or even mildly embarrass, the groom; and Malcolm is fervently hoping that he'll keep it that way. After ten minutes, which cover pathogen-induced amnesia and thinking that an ovosaur was an ugly dog, disassembling the research labs to persuade him to sample a beaker of paint sealant and various other mishaps of an amusing nature, Jim wraps it up with a surprisingly sincere coda covering his own change of view of the man sitting beside him - his bravery during the occupation, the love he so clearly has for his new wife, and the fact that he himself has had a large number of scales fall from his eyes in the years since he arrived in Terra Nova, finishing on a solid wish for their happiness together - and a bright future in a new world. The last thing he does before taking his seat is invite all present to show their appreciation to the groom, and the volume of the applause is surprisingly heartwarming.

"See?" Yseult whispers, as he tries to clear something of a lump from his throat, "They love you after all. But not as much as I do."

As the party continues into the night, most of the Colony has turned out to enjoy the balmy air and the music. For those who haven't eaten, the food vendors are still at work, and everyone is clearly having a magnificent time. Despite the jauntiness of the music, however, the couple in the middle of the throng seem not to notice - entirely lost in one another.

"I never thought this would ever happen to me." Malcolm admits, "I assumed I'd be single for the rest of my life."

"A man as good looking as you?" Yseult smiles at him, "I don't think so. But then, if anyone _had_ muscled in, I would have had to scratch their eyes out."

"You're a Norse Goddess, after all. How could I dare refuse?"

"Ah yes - Norse Goddess of Love, I think it was. I'm looking forward to proving that later on; hopefully not _too_ much later. I want to trick Pete or Louis into catching my bouquet. There's nothing in Terra Nova's constitution that says they can't marry, after all."

"Good point. Do you want to set that up? I can ask Jim to do the honours if you like."

"That would be great - except I don't want to let go of you."

"He's over there. I can wave."

"That'll do nicely."

There is no need to persuade Pete to join the throng of women hoping to catch the bouquet - he's quite brazen enough to do it as a joke, and would probably have done it even if he didn't have Louis. Yseult knows her friend well, and is fully aware that he would try to catch the bouquet for real even if she wasn't going to stitch him up. Smiling, she faces them, taking care to hide the fact that she's checking his position, "Are you all ready?"

"Get on with it, woman!" Pete's voice rises above the hubbub as she turns her back.

"One!" everyone joins in with the count.

"Two!" the group tense, each with their own intention for that bouquet.

"Three!" she swings the bouquet over her head, hoping that she's got her aim right. Just as they did with her, the group of combatants step aside, leaving Pete the sole target, and the flowers land squarely in his arms. Despite himself, he stares at them, much as she did when Maddy pulled the same stunt with her.

"There. Stop dithering, Pete." She grins at him, "What's the worst that could happen?"

For once, he is silenced.

The thump of the music is still faintly audible as Malcolm pushes the door open. It's not easy, as he has Yseult in his arms, her shoes in her hands, "Welcome home, Mrs Wallace."

She smiles at him happily, "Welcome home Mr Ingersleben."

"That's one heck of a maiden name, Max."

"I know. I think I'll stick with Wallace." Yseult traces her fingertip along the line of his jaw, "Now, what was that about Norse Goddesses?"

Holding her close, he kisses her, and carries her to the bedroom.

* * *

"How long have you been like this, Max?" Elisabeth asks, as Yseult sits in the office chair and looks a little wan, Malcolm standing worriedly over her.

"A couple of days, I think. I haven't been quite right since the wedding." She admits, "I hope I didn't eat something that hasn't agreed with me."

"I doubt that. If you had, then other people would also be presenting symptoms. Have you noticed anything else?"

"Not really - I suppose I'm rather tired, but that's probably because we've been so busy with the wedding."

"When was your last period?"

"I can't remember - I haven't been keeping tabs on that because I'm not regular; I never have been. I was just relieved that it didn't clash with the wedding."

Elisabeth raises her eyebrows - even _now_ she doesn't get it? From Malcolm's expression, on the other hand, she suspects that he's figured it out. Finally, her plex beeps and she checks the results of the blood test: Positive.

"Sorry Max - but this is going to be a fixture of your life for a few more weeks yet."

"It is?" She looks horrified, "Food poisoning doesn't last that long does it?"

Then she understands - Yseult has become so used to not conceiving on a monthly basis, that she's largely given up expecting it to happen. Now that it _has,_ she seems not to be taking it in.

"No - but your pregnancy sickness is likely to last until the end of the first trimester. You're pregnant, Max - I'd say about six weeks along or so." Elisabeth smiles, "Congratulations."

"I am?" her expression is one almost of disbelief. It's taken so long…

Elisabeth nods, unable to speak.

Shaking, Yseult stands up, and turns to Malcolm, who is watching her with glistening eyes, "It's happening." She whispers, "It's really happening."

He wraps his arms about her, "Yes, Max. It really is."


	35. New Arrival

**A/N:** and the happy keeps on coming! Thanks again for another lovely review, Leona - I really appreciate it.

* * *

Chapter Thirty Five

 _New Arrival_

Maddy sighs to herself as she closes the door and heads to the labs. She's not going to be gone long, as she has found Malcolm's impending fatherhood has made him far more sympathetic to her wish not to have to leave little Elisabeth. Mark is off duty, and doing the parenting for the morning that she's in work, but nonetheless she feels that sharp wish that she could stay with her child. Even though it's a half day rather than a full one, and the primary reason for going is so that she can sit down and work out exactly how many hours she needs to be in the labs, and how many working at home, that insistent pull is still present. Mom never mentioned that; what on earth must it have been like to have to do that back in Chicago? She doesn't even like to think about it.

In the four or so months since their marriage, and the discovery of his wife's pregnancy, everyone seems to comment how much less uptight Malcolm seems to be; it seems that his contentment is seeping out of his home life and into his work one. She can understand that, too - the knowledge that life is so incredibly good - to live a simple life in a clean world with a loved one at one's side and a growing family; it would never have occurred to her that she could be so lucky. But then, she has Mark. Would it have been different had she had him back in their old world? At least she'll never have to find out.

Malcolm is working at his desk when she arrives, and waves her into his office with a welcoming smile, "Good to see you. How's Elisabeth?"

"She's doing really well. Mom's very pleased with her progress - though it's still a bit on the early side for her to be starting an internship." She adds, with a slightly sly smile.

"I could make some godawful, trite comment about her taking after her mother, but I imagine you're sick to death of hearing that so I won't."

The discussion over her new working hours is surprisingly short and easy. While maternity leave in the Colony can't be as long as it would have been back in Chicago - as they simply don't have enough people to cover it - Malcolm is very keen to grant her as much of a favourable work-life balance as he can.

"I suppose I do sound like the progressive boss from hell, Maddy," He admits, "But I've got an ulterior motive - if you're able to work from home as much as this, then I'm setting a precedent, so I can do the same."

"Sneaky." She grins at him.

One thing that she is still getting used to is people whom she considered to be 'the grownups' speaking to her on fully equal terms; Malcolm has gone from being a rather remote figure to her immediate manager, and even a friend. Maybe it's not just her - maybe everyone goes through that. Not that it matters - the one thing that had been bothering her was how generous he would be with allowing her time with her baby; but it seems that he is not only generous with it, but profligate.

Their discussions complete, he sits back in his chair, and looks a little awkward, "I hope you don't mind me asking this but - you're a new mother, and Max will be in five months time. I don't want to be a rubbish dad - so I was wondering if you had any suggestions as to how I could be helpful without being a pain in the neck?"

Maddy looks a little startled; this is something that she finds quite unnerving - her teacher asking her for tips on good parenting? There is, however, an earnestness in his expression that suggests he is desperate not to let Yseult down by being useless, or overbearing. People might joke about how close they are - particularly with the business of her having her hand on his leg in staff briefings - but, given that no one thought him capable of such open emotions, to see just how much he cares about the woman he married is astonishing. She swallows, a little uncertainly. It couldn't be more obvious to her that he's nervous as hell, and she doesn't really want to freak him out.

"I think my perspective might be a bit too raw, Malcolm." She admits, "It's all new to me - you'd probably be better off talking to Mom and Dad about it - they've done it three times so they've had lots of experience." She pauses, "Have you actually _asked_ Dad?"

Malcolm shakes his head, reddening a little, "No. I think he might make fun of me."

"Not about this, Malcolm. Even if he tried, Mom wouldn't let him - she knows how important Max is to you, and so does Dad. Ask them - they're the best people to give you an idea - if nothing else, Mom knows what it's like to have kids while Dad was around, and while he wasn't. That's a perspective I don't have."

He nods, "Thanks, Maddy. I really appreciate that - I suppose I'm worse than other people would be because I'm older. I think I would've been far more arrogant about it if I'd been in my twenties. Walking into it with my eyes wide shut." Then he smiles, "I think that's it for today - I'll need you to drop in tomorrow so we can discuss your doctorate project, but other than that, go home and enjoy the rest of the day with Elisabeth. I'll have a word with the technicians about setting up a workstation for you at home - but we can do that once we've gone through what you'll need in terms of software and equipment. I don't want to dictate this to you; it's your project, after all."

She smiles, happily, "Thanks Malcolm."

"No problem. Now, go home to your little one so that I can use that excuse when I've got one."

* * *

Yseult's expression is one of discontent, but Pete is quite convinced she's pretending, "Come on, Max - it's not going to do you any harm to have lifts, is it? Besides, being trapped in a Rover for ten minutes with your hubby sounds like hideous torture, so I intend to inflict it on you every day if possible. Rain or shine."

"Why is everyone convinced that the merest thing is going to hurt me?" She complains, "Riding my bike is not going to cause any problems - I checked that out with Elisabeth before I did it. Hiding my bike is ridiculous!"

"Tough. You get the Wallace Taxi service for the next five months - believe me, once you're the size of a house, you'll be glad of it."

"I really needed to be reminded of that, Pete. Thanks." She grumps.

"You're welcome, darling." He quips cheerfully, "Besides, I see no ships - but there's a massively overloaded rover hoving into view as we speak."

"Nit."

"Temper, temper." He grins, waving as Malcolm pulls up, "She's hating the idea."

"Thought she would - but you did insist."

"So it wasn't your idea?" Yseult asks.

"No - but I agreed with it, so I suppose that makes me partially culpable." Malcolm admits.

Both of them know that her sulking is largely for show as he drives her home, as she appreciates the thought. Being into her second trimester, her energy levels have risen, however, and the wish to carry on cycling stems to some degree from that. The frustration of not being allowed to do any heavy work is also bubbling away; add to that the inevitable mood swings thanks to her hormones, it's been a potent combination that has required very careful navigation on Malcolm's part.

The hormones are, however, finally settling down, and she is starting to show, much to the excitement of those around her. It has, however, led to one unexpected phenomenon that she wholly despises; another reason she is glad to be enclosed in the rover.

"If anyone else demands to feel my belly, then I'm going to kick them." She says, as they pull up outside their house, "I had someone else do it this morning - a complete stranger for God's sake. I wasn't aware that people consider pregnancy bumps to be public property."

"I hope the veto on touching doesn't extend to me."

"God, no. Everyone's banned from my bump except you." She smiles, then pulls a face, "Ooh…"

"What?" immediately, he is worried.

"It moved." Yseult's expression changes to a look of sheer wonder, "I just felt the baby move. It's like it's woken up, or something - but, I've never felt it before."

"Really?" now he is fascinated.

"Here." She grabs his left hand and sets it on her belly, "Maybe it'll move again."

They remain like that for nearly five minutes, and then he almost snatches his hand away, startled at the sensation of movement inside his wife's abdomen, "Oh, my God…"

"Don't you dare say 'it's alive', Or I may just have to kill you." Yseult looks at him, though her eyes are almost teary with joy. Probably the hormones again.

Once inside, Yseult sits down while Malcolm makes her a cup of tea. As she had hoped, the sickness subsided as the first trimester drew to an end, and she no longer endures the discomfort of nausea, or the unpleasantness of having to flee the room at inappropriate moments. If it weren't for the tiresome occasions when people seem to take it upon themselves to start prodding at her emerging bump - even though it's still relatively small - then everything would be just wonderful.

"What would you like for dinner?" she asks, as he sets the mugs down and sits beside her so she can lean on him.

"I'd settle for 'something edible', but that would be an impossibility if you let me loose in the kitchen. I can go up to the market place and see what Sal's got?"

"You don't have to do that." She smiles at him.

"I know - but it's nice to give you a night off from fulfilling that horrible chauvinistic thing about being pregnant and in the kitchen. I'd take over the cooking duties if it wasn't a positive health hazard to all three of us."

Malcolm shifts to reach for his plex as it chimes to announce the arrival of a message, "Actually, hold that thought. Elisabeth's just invited us round to theirs; apparently Zoe's gone to a friend's house tonight, so she's taking advantage of the opportunity to stare enviously at your bump."

"As long as she doesn't expect to prod it." Yseult says, darkly.

* * *

In deference to the cooler air of September, Elisabeth has prepared a casserole of root vegetables and gallusaur, with fresh spelt bread to mop up the gravy, "I know just how terrible you are in the kitchen, Malcolm," she smiles at him, "given how much of this there is, I thought you'd both appreciate a break from cooking and washing up."

"I know I do." Yseult admits, "We tried the 'okay, you do it' approach to his preparing dinner. Once was enough."

"That bad?"

"You have _no_ idea." Malcolm sighs, "I wasn't even doing it on purpose. You'd think I'd be better at it, given that I'm a chemist - but apparently not. My ability to mix things together successfully extends to the lab door, and no further."

"You never used to be so self deprecating." Elisabeth regards him quietly.

"No. I used to be an obnoxious idiot with an inflated sense of my own importance. I like to hope that I've grown out of that. Or, at least, _mostly_ grown out of it."

The front door opens as Jim arrives home from his shift, "Oh God, who let you two in?"

Discussions over dinner are convivial, something that Jim still finds quite remarkable given the wholly unpromising nature of his first encounter with Malcolm. The discovery that he could not only cast aside his first impressions, but also find a way to befriend the man who once dated his wife is still quite astonishing to him. He would never have believed, in those first days after they met, that he would not only be perfectly happy to host him for dinner, but actually be the best man at his wedding. Though he has been finding it extremely bizarre to have to deal with regular questioning about being a dad.

"How's Mira these days?" Yseult asks, knocking him from his reverie.

"Er…fine, I think. It's never easy to tell with her - she keeps her cards very close to her chest."

"It can't be easy to be here, knowing that her daughter's beyond her reach. I couldn't imagine how painful that must be for her."

"She's a tough woman." Jim says, sagely.

"Perhaps - but nonetheless, it must be horrible for her." As she speaks, Yseult's hand is on her newly emerging bump, "I suppose I've never thought about it before; but now - I can't imagine what she must be going through. I almost feel guilty when I see her. No matter how much you feel she's to blame for her situation, her daughter isn't."

"I wish it were possible to reunite them." Jim admits, "She doesn't show it much - but there are times when I catch her off guard, and I can see how sad she is. She must be one of the strongest people I know to live with that and not show it. I guess she deals with it by going home and smashing the hell out of her crockery or something."

Yseult is about to reply, then shifts slightly, "Sorry, I'm not used to this."

"What?" Jim asks, bemused.

"The baby's started moving - I felt it for the first time today."

"May I?" Elisabeth asks, "Purely for medical purposes, you understand."

Yseult nods, "Just this once - and because you asked. Most people don't - they just plonk their hand on my belly."

"That can't be pleasant." Jim observes.

"It isn't. The last person to grab at me without permission was Mike. What it must be like for people who haven't got that over their heads, I don't know - but I've nearly lashed out at a few people recently because of that."

Malcolm quietly slips his arm across her shoulders, and Elisabeth shakes her head, "It's okay. I was being a bit presumptuous, wasn't I? I'm sorry - I'll restrain myself until you come in for your next scan."

"It's okay - you asked, and you're my doctor, so I don't mind. It's when someone I hardly know, or someone I've never even _met_ comes up to me, notices the bump, and just reaches out. No one warned me that my bump would belong to everyone - but I get the feeling people will be offended if I object."

"Most people aren't that rude." Elisabeth admits, "I know it's because they're pleased for you - but it's dreadfully intrusive. I suppose it's worse here because we're such a small community, so people are friendlier, and they forget that there are still some boundaries to people's personal space. Don't feel bad about objecting, Max - if people complain, then we'll make it clear that they haven't got a leg to stand on."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Strolling home in the late evening darkness, they move with that almost studied closeness together that has become a hallmark of their joint presence in public, "I didn't realise you associated people reaching for your bump with what Mike did to you, Max." Malcolm murmurs, his arm tight about her shoulders.

"It's not so much that - just the sense of expectation that they can do it, and that I have no right to object. I don't _want_ anyone else to touch my bump; just you, and Elisabeth when she examines me. This little one is half yours, after all."

"I know. Poor thing." He smiles at her.

* * *

Elisabeth examines the charts, her eyes intent, "These are looking fine, Max - though I'd like to keep monitoring your blood pressure. It's a little higher than usual. Nothing to worry about, but given that you're at the older end of your childbearing years, it's something I'd prefer to keep watching."

Yseult nods, "Is there anything else I should be thinking about?"

"Not at the moment. You're just where I'd expect you to be at this stage. How are things going with Sue?"

"Very well. She seems amenable to my having the baby at home. Would you object to that? It's something that was a bit of a tradition in our family, and I'd like to maintain it."

"Given that you're not that far away from the Infirmary, I would have less of an objection to it than I might've done if we were back in Chicago. Yours wouldn't be the first home birth in the Colony - though only one of those was actually planned. If you're discussing this with Sue, she can help you put together a birth plan so that we're ready to help you if you need it, or to back the hell off if you don't."

"I'd like to do that if possible."

Elisabeth sits back and regards her, "How are you feeling? In yourself, I mean. You've only got a couple more months to go now, after all. I imagine you must be quite relieved that the end's in sight."

Yseult laughs, "I have to admit that I'll be glad to get this little one out - but otherwise I'm okay. I'm going a bit crazy at work because Pete won't let me do anything practical. I've had to make do with administrative stuff - I've never been so up to date on my paperwork before. Did you see the baby blanket he and Louis gave us for Solstice?"

"I did. I think they're almost as excited about this little one as you and Malcolm are. How's he doing?"

"Nervous as hell, I think. But then, so am I, so I can't blame him. I think he's terrified he's going to do something that'll cause me to go into labour prematurely. Hard to believe he knows less about pregnancy than I do - I would've thought he studied pregnancy and reproduction as part of his zoology Masters."

"By 'do something', I take it you mean sexual activity?" Elisabeth asks, rather bluntly.

"I suspect so. I suppose, given all the things that've happened to us over the last couple of years or so, he's still frightened that fate will yank the rug out from under him, or something. After our wedding, and my getting pregnant, everything's being going really well - and he's scared that it'll balance out with something nasty."

"Even though this could be balancing out the bad things that happened before you two married - assuming that you believe in such things?"

Yseult nods, "It's a new experience for both of us. It'll settle down once we have the baby, I'm sure of that."

Elisabeth laughs, "I can guarantee the pair of you will be too tired to think about things like that."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

Sitting at her desk, Yseult shifts and lets out a small grunt of pain. Pete looks up, nervously, "You alright?"

"It's okay - the baby just got me in the stomach." She says, "I'm glad I haven't eaten yet."

"Just don't start having contractions, alright? I'm about as much use as a midwife as a slasher."

"What is it about men and encroaching childbirth? I just have to move, and you all go into panic mode. It's not like I'm going to go 'ouch' and suddenly have a baby in my lap."

"Be careful what you wish for, madam." He grins at her.

She stares at her plex and sighs. It's been months since she's been allowed to work at their newly sited forge, and Ben has been working with someone else on their continued development of the blast furnace. All she can do is watch, make comments and file paperwork. Pete won't let her do anything else - and Elisabeth backed him up when she complained to the doctor that she wanted to do at least _something_ more practical than tap at a plex.

Slowly, she strokes her hand over her now-much-larger bump. Despite his own curiosity, Malcolm has been surprisingly supportive of her decision to leave it until the baby is born to find out what they're going to have - to the point of promising that he won't ask Elisabeth on the sly. As he made that promise in front of the doctor, he's rather trapped by it now, so he's had no choice but to keep quiet about it. While she doesn't mind having that bump, the nearness of her due date has left her having to deal with Pete's refusal to leave her on her own in case she goes into labour while at the wrong end of the compound. Given that she will be going on maternity leave in barely three weeks' time, the chances of that happening are minimal at best, but he frets because he cares about her, and she appreciates it.

"God; if I'm going crazy now, Pete - what on earth will I be like when I'm at home?" she asks, suddenly, "I'm not used to not having practical work to do."

"I wouldn't see it like that." He grins at her, "See it as a three week respite before you stop having time to yourself for the next eighteen years."

"Thanks. I think."

"You're welcome, darling."

* * *

Malcolm comes in from work to see Yseult standing at the counter, arching her back slightly and breathing out through her mouth, "Max?"

"It's okay. Just another spot of Braxton Hicks, I think. It's not too bad - but I think it probably won't be much longer now."

He comes over to stand beside her and rubs her back, "What about the backache?"

"About the same as the swollen ankles. Sue's dropping by later to go through the birth plan. I think that'll be the last time before it goes into action."

After a week and a half of her maternity leave, Yseult is, as she predicted, starting to get extremely bored. She has prepared all that she can, and now waits for the moment when everything will start. Her last scan showed that everything was going very well - that the baby had turned, and is ready to be born. It's now just a waiting game.

"Sal's made me a large box of salad which should do us for dinner." Malcolm advises, setting the carton on the counter, "She's already offered to keep us in meals for the time being. My culinary reputation appears to be spreading."

Yseult straightens again, "There. It's stopped again. Braxton Hicks. Give me about half an hour and I'll probably be hungry."

"No problem. This can wait in the fridge easily enough."

"How's Maddy doing?" she asks, as he sits down on the couch, and she lies back, her head on his lap and her ankles elevated on a cushion.

"Not too bad at all." Malcolm reports, tousling her hair gently, "She's very diligent - and disciplined. It's amazing what she's been able to do at home - though she has to do the practical work at the lab; I couldn't set _that_ up for her to do at home."

She laughs, then frowns, before grimacing in pain, "Oh…this is different."

"What?" Malcolm stares at her, nervously, "What?"

"I think you might want to call Sue."

"I…er…" suddenly he is dithering.

"She's probably on her way. Don't worry. I'll run myself a bath - you let her in when she gets here."

"How can you be so calm?"

"What's the point in panicking? Sue's talked me through this - if you let her know, she can check it's for real, and we can get ready."

Sue, the Colony's midwife, is at the door when a plaintive call comes through from the bathroom, "I think it's for real."

"Why's that?" Malcolm calls back.

"My waters have broken."

"Oh, my God…"

Sue rests a hand on Malcolm's arm, "Don't worry - I'll call the infirmary and ask them to send through the things I've set aside. We've been ready for this for a week or more. You go through and keep Max company. Make sure she's warm and as comfortable as she can be in the circumstances."

He nods, pulling himself together, and heads through to the bathroom to find Yseult undressed and sitting in a bath of warm water, looking rather frightened, "Sue warned me it would hurt - but I didn't think it would be this bad." Her face creases again, and she groans aloud, the volume rising with the discomfort of the contraction.

"She's put in a call for the equipment she organised, Max. She'll be here in a few minutes."

"Stay with me, Malcolm."

"I'm not going anywhere." He grasps her hands as she leans over the side of the bath, breathing fast, "Come on - remember what Sue told you about breathing. Let's do it together." Putting his own nerves aside, he forces himself to put on a calm front, helping her to remember the breathing exercises she's been learning ready for this moment. Then her hands are clutching his with a painfully tight grip as another contraction hits.

"Sue?" He calls through, wondering where she's gone.

"It's okay - I'm coming!" she calls back, her voice getting louder as she approaches, "No, don't get up. Stay there for now. Max, do you want any pain relief?"

"God, yes…whatever you've got."

Sue laughs, kindly, "I'll hold off giving you something that'll stop you feeling everything. Best to have some sensation so you know when to push. We'll try gas and air first - that should take the edge off it for you. Do you want me to prep the bed?"

"Not now, I want to stay here for the time being. It helps." Yseult shakes her head.

"Okay. I'll need to examine you - it'll be a bit awkward in the water, but I shouldn't have a problem."

Yseult nods, then groans again, gripping painfully at Malcolm's hands.

Sue completes her examination, "You're not fully dilated, Max. I'm afraid it'll be a few hours yet."

The first light of dawn is staining the sky by the time Elisabeth arrives. There's no clinical need for her to be present - but she is keen to offer some support, and the sound of a painful cry as she arrives proves to her that Yseult requires that support. She's been in labour for nearly fourteen hours.

"Elisabeth?" Malcolm looks up at her, worriedly, "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all." She smiles, "From what Sue's told me, everything's coming on fine. I just wanted to offer some moral support."

"Coming on fine?" Yseult demands, leaning back on a heap of pillows that have been set on the bed, "Is that what you call this? It bloody hurts like hell!"

"She's doing much better than she thinks," Sue advises, calmly ignoring the angry words, "She's not quite fully dilated yet, but it shouldn't be too much longer till she can start pushing."

Yseult groans again, "Oh God - I want to push, Sue."

"Not yet. I'll let you know when you can."

Her face creased in a sharp grimace, Yseult lets out a sudden stream of invective that startles Elisabeth. Even though most of it was in German, she can guess that most of it consists of very bad language indeed. She's used to this, of course, mothers screaming out all sorts of things - often insulting everyone around them; but despite everything, she won't allow Malcolm to let go of her, and not a single word of that furious language seems to be addressed to him. Even now, she needs to keep him close.

After another half hour, Sue nods, "We're a go. You're fully dilated, Max. If you need to push, you can push. Okay?"

Standing alongside Yseult's left side, a hand on her shoulder, Elisabeth regards Malcolm, who has endured watching his wife suffering intense pain, along with the gore, mess, and reek of parturition, without demur. He's never been squeamish; she knows that, but this is different. It's always different when the one in pain is someone you love. Rather than freak out - which was what she would have expected - he has held Yseult's hands, applied cold compresses to her forehead, dabbed with a damp cloth at her face and neck, offered her sips of water between contractions to compensate for the dryness caused by the gas and air and put up with the most astonishing explosions of foul language into the bargain.

Regardless of Sue's exhortation to push, another hour passes before she finally announces that she can see the head, "Nearly there, Max. You can do it!"

"Oh God!" Yseult's voice rises as she forces herself to bear down again, her effort accompanied by a scream that is half pain, half fury at her body's refusal to finish the job as quickly as she wants it to. Surely it's been long enough, hasn't it, dammit?

"One more, Max!" Sue calls, "Just one more push and we'll have this baby born."

Shrieking with the effort, Yseult complies, and there is a flurry of activity at the other end of the bed, "You've done it, Max!" Sue calls delightedly, "Give me a moment, and I'll introduce you."

In an instant, the anger, the tiredness seems forgotten. Moving slowly and awkwardly, Yseult tries to sit more upright, and Malcolm does what he can to help given that they are both looking at the blotchy, smeared bundle in Sue's arms as she carries out a few quick checks to clear the baby's airway.

"I'll cut the cord in a minute, Max. I think you want to meet your little one, don't you?"

"What is it?" she calls, tiredly.

"A little girl, Max. You have a daughter." Gently, Sue rests the baby in Yseult's arms, and pulls back to allow the new parents to stare in wonderment at their child.

"Oh, my God…" Malcolm whispers, a catch in his voice.

"Look what we did, Malcolm," Yseult says, tearfully, looking up at him, "look what we did." Carefully, gently, she cuddles the girl close, "Hello beautiful." If there's an instinctive bond between mother and child, she knows she's feeling it.

Fighting with himself not to cry, Malcolm hugs his arms around Yseult and looks closely at his daughter, "She's wonderful - and so are you. Well done, Max. I love you - so much." Then he gives up fighting, and sobs into her shoulder.

"It's not quite over yet, Max." Elisabeth says, once Malcolm has recovered his composure, "I imagine you're already feeling the contractions to get the placenta out. While that's happening, can we borrow your little one? Just to cut the cord, do a few checks and then clean her up a bit for you. Okay? It won't be long, and then she'll be all yours."

She smiles. From the look on her face, Yseult can't wait for the interlopers to be gone, and leave her new family in peace.

* * *

The bed has been remade with clean sheets, and Yseult has been asleep for most of the day, leaving Malcolm to cradle his new daughter. Until he discovered the existence of Terra Nova, and made it his mission to get here, the concept of having children had seemed monumentally irresponsible. Why bring new life into a dying world? But this world is young and new - and now he has everything he thought he didn't need; reality stepping in and proving his assessment to be utterly wrong.

The little girl is asleep, her trust in his embrace absolute. He has no idea if there is an instinctive formation of a bond between father and child, but if there is, he knows it's forming, "You're gorgeous." He tells her, very softly, "I can't believe how lucky I am to have you, and your mother. I never thought I'd ever know what this was like." He lifts her very carefully so he can look into her face, "I promise you," he whispers, "I will protect you, and love you. I'll be there for you, all the way. You and your mother - she was the most precious thing in my life. Now she's the most precious thing in my life, and so are you. Do you think you can share?"

She moves slightly, and gurgles a little in her sleep. With infinite care, he kisses her on the forehead.

"That is possibly one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

He turns to see Yseult has woken, and is watching them, her eyes glistening. Carefully, gently, he transfers the sleeping girl to her mother, "Here you are. I've had her to myself for long enough. Your turn to go all gooey over how lovely she is." He settles down alongside her, his arm about her shoulders.

"Are we agreed about her name?" Yseult asks, quietly.

"Definitely."

He looks up at the sound of the door chime, "Hold that thought." Bemused, he heads out to the living room and opens the front door.

"Commander." He stares, surprised to see Taylor outside.

"Can I come in?"

"Er - yes, please do. Sorry about the mess - we didn't really have much time to tidy up after everything kicked off." Malcolm looks about at the small degree of scattered items that, to his eyes at least, constitute 'mess'.

He pops his head around the bedroom door, "It's Commander Taylor."

"Nathaniel - please. I'm not on duty right now."

Yseult smiles, "Of course, come in Nathaniel."

Taylor stands at the foot of the bed as Malcolm returns to sit with his wife, "Congratulations to you both. I'd normally do this nonsense at some form of ceremony or other, but as there isn't one until June, I thought I'd come and visit our newest Colonist instead. I won't stay long."

He regards them with fondness. Yseult has always been someone for whom he's had a lot of time - though it took him a few years to become accustomed to Malcolm's altogether more abrasive personality. To see them together, and parents, is something he never imagined when he first invited Yseult to join the senior staff.

"Of course." Yseult says, "It wouldn't feel right not to introduce you. You are, after all, her unofficial granddad."

He chuckles, a soft snort of laughter, "I'm finding that to be the case. What have you decided to call her?"

"We didn't know what we were going to have, so we decided that we'd name a boy after our fathers, and a girl after our mothers." Malcolm supplies, but leaves it to his wife to do the honours.

"We've decided to call her Erin. Erin Leyna Wallace."

Taylor smiles, "That's a beautiful name."

"We thought so." Yseult smiles.

Coming round to the side of the bed, Taylor looks more closely at the little girl, who is awake, and seems almost to be regarding him with solemn eyes, though she can't really see much at barely a day old.

"Welcome Erin." He says, softly, "Welcome to Terra Nova."


	36. Complete

**A/N** : I almost don't want to post this; because, as the immortal Dr Watson didn't exactly say in _The Final Problem_ : it is with a heavy heart that I take up my keyboard to write these, the last words in which I shall record the singular outpouring of imagination that has constituted this tale. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Thirty Six

 _Complete_

Crunching his way through a slice of toast, Malcolm watches as Yseult feeds Erin, her expression one of such tenderness over the suckling child that the pair look, to his eyes at least, almost like a religious icon - albeit one in which the Madonna is adorned with messy brown hair and cargo pants.

"Have I told you recently that I love you?" he asks, quietly.

"Not this morning." She smiles back at him as Erin moves away from her breast, and she rests the little girl over her shoulder to burp her, "But I think you mentioned it a few times in bed last night."

He reddens slightly; in the two months since their daughter was born, their relations have been loving, but chaste, as Yseult's body returns to normal. Keen to not to push her, he has avoided anything more overt despite a real wish to do so; until last night, when the kiss she bestowed upon him had been so laden with intent that what followed was largely similar to the first time they'd been so overtaken with passion for one another. Fortunately, tucked up in her crib, Erin had slept through it. They've been lucky so far on that front; she's been an astonishingly good sleeper - though Elisabeth and Sue have already warned them that it isn't likely to last. Thus, they take advantage of the respite while they may.

Sitting down behind her, he makes room for her to lean back against him, and he looks over her shoulder at their daughter, freshly burped and now cuddled close to her mother's chest, "I never thought I'd be this lucky." He admits, "The thought of having children back in that filthy world was beyond contemplation - but now I have a family again."

His voice catches slightly, and Yseult shifts a little so she can look at him. She is not surprised to see his eyes are brimming; reminded of the loss of his father when he was so young himself. Is he afraid that history might repeat itself? That their daughter might endure the same loss?

"I wish they were here to see her." He continues, his voice wavering slightly, "It's only now that I'm a dad myself that it really hits home what I lost when they took my father away. He'll never know he's a granddad…" a tear escapes and makes its way down his cheek - the grief that he refused to allow himself to feel as a child suddenly surging back at him like a rogue wave.

"Shall we do something?" she asks, softly, as he rests his chin on her shoulder, his eyes fixed upon Erin as though she is all that will stop him being washed away by his emotions, "We've both lost family. Maybe we should have something to commemorate them - some plants in the garden, perhaps."

He nods, "I think that would be a good thing. I assumed that the reason I never felt any overt grief over my father's death was because I'd already worked out that he wasn't coming back. When my mother died, we knew it was coming, and I persuaded myself that I'd already done the grieving. I hadn't - I can't've done - not when I was over-working as much as I was. That was always my way of dealing with something painful." Leaning over, he reaches for his personal plex, "I never looked at these pictures - I transferred the files over without ever opening them. I don't think I've even looked at the folders for years."

Yseult shifts again so that she's sitting beside him, Erin carefully cradled in her arms and drowsing peacefully as Malcolm calls up the files, "We managed to get some time in the western highlands that spring," he explains, "It was the one part of the country that was a little less laden with pollutants than anywhere else because of its wet climate, so there were still some days when you could get something akin to a view. Mam made absolutely sure that these were safe - and I've had them ever since, but I wouldn't look at them. I used to tell myself that it was because there wasn't any point in dredging up the past; but it's obvious now that I was too scared to."

The pictures show a family enjoying a holiday. As promised, there are some views, and the sky looks less ghastly than it did elsewhere by the 2110s. She recognises Duncan Wallace at once - his face was once internationally prominent, after all - but the woman is not familiar, as Erin Wallace was known only in Earth Science circles: as a member of the international scientific consortium that had tried, and failed, to find ways to reverse the damage to the climate. They appear in various images, either alone, or together, though the ones in which they are together seem slightly wonky, and she surmises that their son must've taken them. She catches sight of the file data - from the date, it was taken mere months before the hearings began.

Then she pauses over a posed picture, taken in the family lounge by the look of it, of a boy in the smartest Highland dress: a neat little Prince Charlie Jacket, and a kilt in a dark green plaid which must be, presumably, his Clan tartan. The boy in the picture is sandy haired, though she can't see if his eyes are blue; he is not overly tall yet, but the look on his face is one of such open happiness that she almost wonders for a moment who he is. She's looking at a child who is loved and treasured, and who knows it. And then, just a few months later, that joyful, carefree world was shattered into pieces. She doesn't have to turn to look at him to know that he is in tears.

"I miss them, Max." He whispers, painfully, "I wish they were still here."

Yseult says nothing, but rests against him. She knows it's because of Erin that his grief is striking at him. Becoming a parent does funny things to people - she's noticed it about herself, too. She'd assumed it was her hormones, but it can't be hormones with Malcolm, so it must be an emotional response that's been triggered by the bond he's formed with his daughter.

It doesn't take him long to regain his composure, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It needed to come out." She smiles and kisses him on the cheek, "Shall we go and see if there are any plant stalls in the marketplace today?"

* * *

The one thing that Malcolm has noticed since Erin was born was just how interested people are in them all now. Once, he would have walked to the market place and would've been lucky to have been granted greetings - though that was probably because he didn't offer any himself. Now, however, everyone wants to talk to them; or, rather, stop them to coo over their baby daughter. The truly bizarre thing about it all is that, not only does he not mind the interruptions, he is actually quite happy to stop.

Yseult is, naturally, in her element. She's always been sociable in a way that he hasn't, but he takes his cues from her, and the degree to which their social circle has widened as a consequence is startling - though he finds it a little hurtful that people seem surprised if _he's_ carrying Erin rather than his wife.

The trip to the marketplace takes a while, but is nothing like as extended in length as their actual stop at their destination. Everyone wants to see their little girl, so they move slowly, talk to many, and generally make very little progress. Given that there has been no 'formal' introduction yet, everyone wants to see the Colony's newest arrival. That'll happen sooner or later - even here babies receive some form of ceremonial welcome akin to a christening - but for the time being, people grab the opportunity to see Erin while she's out in public. Their daughter is, for a short time at least, something of a celebrity.

Finding a stall where some plants are available to buy, Malcolm looks up towards the Command Centre as the stallholder takes a moment to gaze adoringly at Erin and ask all the usual questions about sleep patterns, nappies and God knows what else, to see Commander Taylor on his balcony, looking down at them. He beckons, and, rather than call up, Malcolm points at himself, and receives a nod, then points at Yseult - to receive a rather more equivocal response.

"I'm just going to pop up and have a word with the Commander." He interrupts the mutual cooing session, "I won't be long."

Taylor invites him inside, "It doesn't matter whether Max is with you or not - but this concerns you, so I wanted to talk to you about it first."

"About what?" Malcolm asks, his expression slightly suspicious.

"I'm planning to go back out to the Encampment with Shannon."

"Why?"

"Partly to raid any remaining vehicles for parts, but mostly to make sure the damn place is so gone that it's never coming back." He admits.

"Why are you asking me about it?" Malcolm has moved from 'suspicious' to 'confused'.

"Given what happened to you there, I wanted you to know we were going _before_ we went, rather than find out through the grapevine while we're gone, or after we've got back. It's not fair on you to find out something like that from rumours." He pauses, "And I also wanted to give you the opportunity to come with us - if you feel you need to."

"Me? Why?"

"To watch me blow up the remains of the terminus. Assuming there's anything left of it."

Closure. Taylor is offering him closure. He knew nothing of what happened out there after he lost consciousness - but given what he remembers, the thought of being taken back chills him inside. Should he face that? Or is it better to let sleeping dogs lie? Besides, how long will they be out there - would he want to leave Yseult and Erin on their own while he's outside the Colony?

"I'm not sure." He admits, quietly, "Part of me would welcome the sense of closure - knowing that no one'll ever try to force me to repair that bloody thing again - but, I'm not sure I ever want to go back there after what Hooper and Lucas did to me. Besides, I can't agree to something like this independently. I need to talk it over with Max."

Taylor nods, "I won't go until I know whether you're coming or not. If you don't want to, then don't feel that you have to. This is entirely up to you."

* * *

The rhino bounces across the rutted, stony ground. After nearly four hours in the back, Jim is feeling distinctly unwell, and is wishing fervently that Taylor would stop the vehicle for a while or - better still - swap places for a bit.

Their departure was slightly delayed when Malcolm had something of a flake-out just prior to departure. Having agreed to participate in the venture, for the reasons of closure that Taylor is keen that he confront, he nearly refused to get into the rhino, not wishing to be in the passenger seat again; as that was where Lucas had seated him on their journey out to the place where he had nearly died of thirst and heat. His discussions with Yseult had persuaded him that it would be a worthwhile thing to do, and it was she who had convinced him not to back out. She seems to agree with Taylor that he needs to know that there is no way that anyone will ever be able to force him to find a way back to the future - not even from within their own group. The one way of doing that is to ensure that the terminus is so gone that no one can ever even build another one, much less demand that he repair it. Once it's done, it's done. There's no going back. Given that the three men going out to the dry waste of the Badlands have no desire whatsoever to go back to the future, it's not as though they're going to baulk at the last minute.

Even so, as the vehicle has left the forests behind, and Taylor uses the thorn bushes that the Sixers left as markers to guide him back to the dread encampment, Malcolm looks very stressed. It could not be more obvious that he doesn't want to be here - but feels that he must be if he's going to loose that heavy millstone from about his neck.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Malcolm knows that Taylor is worried that he's made the wrong choice in allowing his Science Officer to come along. The fact that he had that horrible scorpion nightmare last night proves that it's still something that he's afraid of at the deepest, subconscious level - and, consequently, regardless of how much he's dreading seeing the encampment where he suffered so much, Malcolm is not regretting the decision. Yes, he's afraid; yes, the memories are snapping at him again - but the chance to gain tangible, visible _proof_ that the terminus is gone forever is an opportunity that he can't afford to pass up. That alone will be worth the horrible knot he feels in his stomach, the sense of almost palpable fear. He is not going to be left there. He is not going to die of thirst. When they arrive, they will stay only long enough to do what they came to do, and then he will go straight home to a beloved wife and child, and never think of this place again.

At first, as he rounds the escarpment from which they overlooked the last night of that camp's life, Taylor is astonished that anything is standing at all, though most has fallen down and probably looks invisible thanks to a layer of dusty sand that has covered everything. The few vehicles are still present - as Guzman could only return the ones that they'd left behind themselves - and, while useless, there are bound to be plenty of parts they can cannibalise to bring back.

For a while, they survey the area in silence, looking about at what little remains; until Malcolm turns and walks slowly through the remnants towards one sole structure, and he stares at it, as though hypnotised.

"What is it?" Jim has come over to find out what he's looking at.

"They called that 'the box'." Malcolm murmurs, "It was a punishment cell. Lucas had me put in it twice."

Jim wanders around it, and touches it, tentatively, before snatching his hand back with a sharp curse. The sun is high, and hot - and so is the aluminum. What on earth must it be like inside there? Finding the hatch, he opens it and crawls half in. He does not stay long.

"Hell - that's a real oven in there." He admits.

"I don't know how long I was in it. I think it was an hour, each time - but it's impossible to tell when you're inside. You lose track of time very quickly - I assume that's the case, because I did. I suppose it was while I was in there that I really began to appreciate just how much Lucas had lost touch with reality. Even after a short time in there - you lose the ability to function. I had to be left to try and rest it off, but never for long enough. He expected me to carry on working with the same degree of dexterity and attention as I'd had before - even though I'd had almost no water." He pauses, "Do you think we've got enough explosives to blow this up, too?"

Jim stares at him, surprised - but then he sees the intent look on Malcolm's face, and realises that this - more than the terminus - is something that Malcolm wants to destroy. Being forced to work on the terminus was miserable enough, but to have been thrown into that horrible confined space in the worst heat of the day was far worse. Maybe that's what he needs more than to blast the terminus to smithereens.

"Come on. Let's go and see what we can find in the vehicles. Then we can start blowing things up."

Between the three of them, the transfer of workable parts from the remaining rhinos into the back of theirs takes little more than an hour. As he works, Taylor notices just how frequently Malcolm is stopping to drink; having been denied water the last time he was obliged to work in this place, perhaps it's not that surprising that he is rather paranoid about it now. Taylor took great care to over-cater in terms of fluids - so he isn't concerned at how much water Malcolm is using up - but it's very telling just how deeply his experience in the Badlands has affected him.

The work done, the Commander looks through the explosives he has brought with him - again he has overdone it slightly, but he's glad of it now, as Jim has warned him of Malcolm's quiet wish to destroy the construction that he fears even more than the terminus. Having no experience of handling explosives, however, Taylor won't let Malcolm set them, but he seems very keen to watch as first the machinery that he was effectively enslaved to repair, and then the box in which he was cruelly punished for being unable to achieve the impossible, are stuffed with sufficient plastic explosive to ensure that they're all going to have to go a considerable distance away to avoid being showered in shrapnel.

Setting remote detonators, Taylor drives the rhino a good mile distant, and demands that everyone stand on the leeward side of the vehicle before handing the remote to Malcolm, "Here. Just lift the red cover, and flip the switch."

His expression unnervingly set, Malcolm takes the proffered article, and prepares to do as bid, but stays very still for a considerable time. _This is it. No more terminus - no more people to demand that it be repaired. No one can build another one, not even me. Once it's done it's done. Even if Lucas comes back from the dead, he can't make me come back here. It's over - and I can go home and never think about this wretched place ever again._

He flips the switch.

For a moment, it seems very quiet - and then there is a bizarre, solid _thump_ , followed a few moments later by the sound of the blast, chasing the shockwave of the detonation. The rhino shakes violently, and then everything seems very still, apart from the distant sound of broken metal landing on the ground on the other side of their shelter, and waves of dust wafting past them.

Without a word, Taylor hands over his binoculars, and Malcolm emerges around the side of the rhino to view the remains. The 'box' is nothing now but a single shard of blackened aluminium, while the terminus as been utterly obliterated. It's pretty clear where the majority of the explosive was set - but it's done the job. There's nothing left to repair now, and no sign of that nightmarish crate in which he thought he was going to roast alive. It's gone. All of it.

Perhaps he should cry - or possibly dance about like an idiot to celebrate the destruction of that horrible place. But he doesn't want to. He wants to go home to Yseult, and Erin, and just get on with his life. Lucas is dead, Hooper is dead, even the bloody _terminus_ is dead - but he isn't. He's free of the whole damn lot of them - he's no one's commodity any more. Just a husband, father and scientist. In that order.

Standing behind the rhino, watching and waiting for Malcolm to report back to them, Jim can almost see it - as though a burden has lifted. Turning, his expression easier than it's been in months, Malcolm hands back the binoculars and nods, "It was the right choice, Commander. Thank you for letting me join you. Shall we go?"

It couldn't be clearer that the explosives did their job - in every context. Nodding, pleased, Taylor gets into the rhino, "Come on folks. Time to roll."

Malcolm returns to the passenger side, and Jim, sighing, clambers into the back.

* * *

Despite her insistence that Malcolm should go back with Jim and Commander Taylor, Yseult has spent the last day and night in a state of mildly worried tension. Erin woke several times in the night, perhaps a reaction to her mother's state, and she sits in the marketplace, cuddling her daughter as she waits for the rhino to return.

No one looks at her as though she's mad - but she is surprised to see Mira standing over her, looking at her with a rather odd expression. Not envy - well, not exactly - not dislike, nor a desire to cuddle Erin. In her need to quell her pain over Sienna, she has done all she can to suppress her maternal instincts; but it's a bit hard to do that in front of a mother and her new baby.

Having had little to do with the Sixers, and living through the occupation largely unmolested, Yseult doesn't view the statuesque, proud woman standing over her with the hostility that others share. With her entirely different perspective, she sees the woman, not the baggage that she is obliged to carry with her, and she smiles, "Hello Mira."

"Max." She seems unwilling to say any more.

"Do you want to sit down?"

For a moment, Mira dithers, then sits in one swift movement that suggests a snap decision.

"This must be very hard for you." Yseult says, after a few minutes' rather uncomfortable silence.

Mira shrugs, but responds with a question, "Are you waiting for Malcolm?"

"Guilty as charged." She admits, with a mild smile, "The last time he went outside the gates, he went out with a man who wanted him dead, and I was afraid he'd never come back." She pauses, "Have I thanked you for helping to save him? I don't know if I have - and if I haven't, then I'm sorry."

Mira regards her, "You don't hate me, do you?"

"Why should I? You didn't betray me - and you didn't harm me; besides, you helped to bring home one of the two most precious people in my life. I could follow the herd mentality like a sheep, but it seems pointless now. We weren't the only ones who lost out when things went the way that they did, are we?" she adds, pointedly.

Rather than answer her, Mira instead extends her finger, and Erin grasps at it, clinging with the astonishingly tight grip that still startles both of her parents now and again. She smiles at the fascinated baby, and suddenly her eyes are filling with tears. She's tried so hard not to let this happen - so damned hard…

Anyone who stops in astonishment at the sight of Mira as she weeps is met with a vicious, hard stare from Yseult, and quickly find something else to be getting on with. No one thought her capable of expressing such powerful emotions; but, strong though she is, she is still human, and no one can be strong all the time. Her daughter is beyond her reach, and cannot be saved from the future world, and she can't go back for her. Now that she has found a place in the Colony, and the grasp of her employers has been broken, the one thing she wanted more than anything in the world has also been denied her, and she has been left with nothing but grief.

Gradually, she regains her composure, though she seems not to have re-erected that veneer of hardness that was present before she sat down. Yseult is, however, likely to be the only person for the time being who seems willing to let bygones truly be bygones - but it is, at least, a start. Her expression softer than it's been for a long, long time, she stands again, "Thank you."

"You helped me - it would be churlish of me not to help you in return. No one deserves to carry grief alone - if you ever need to talk, about anything, you know where I am."

Mira nods, then looks up, "I think your husband's coming back."

Yseult turns to see the rhino approaching at a much more sedate pace than it did last time Taylor returned from the Badlands, and she rises, her eyes alight; though, when she turns, Mira's gone.

As they dine that evening, she doesn't need to ask Malcolm how he's feeling - it's very clear that he's laid some of his cruellest ghosts, and is much, much happier, "Taylor let me do the honours with the detonator." He explains, "I blew up that punishment cell - I think that was probably the most satisfying thing I've done this year. Even destroying the terminus took second place."

"You look better." Yseult agrees, "No matter how happy you were, there was always that slight shadow. It's only really noticeable now because it's gone."

He nods, "I was only really interested in destroying the terminus while we were on the way out there - but that bloody box was still there, which it would be given that it wouldn't have rusted even if there'd been any rain, and the moment I saw it, I knew that was what I really wanted to blast out of existence. Trying to repair that bloody terminus was bad - but lying in that box was ghastly as hell, and knowing that it was there made everything worse. Nothing says more strongly that Lucas had gone out of his mind than the fact that he was willing to incapacitate me to the point of dying because I couldn't do what he was demanding of me - and still expected me to carry on afterwards. The one thing you _don't_ do with the repair man is render him unable to repair anything."

She reaches out to take his hand, "But that chapter's closed now. We can start living our lives."

He nods, "That we can." He looks up at the sound of their daughter's wail, "I think Erin might want her dinner. Or changing. I have no idea which."

"Nor do I - but as I'm the only one who can help with the first option, I'll see what it is. You can wash up."

"Thanks." He smiles, "Does that mean I get out of an impending nappy change?"

"That depends on what I find."

* * *

Commander Taylor sits alongside Alicia's grave in the early light of morning. Although Commemoration is still another month away, he tends to follow the 'high days and holidays' rule when visiting with his clumsily arranged bunch of flowers, and given that they are formally celebrating Erin's arrival into the community this afternoon, he feels that it counts.

"It's been a hell of a few years, Wash." He says, looking about at the misty surrounds of Memorial Field, "I can't really believe that it's over - the Phoenix Group can't reach us any more, their soldiers are dead, Lucas is gone. Given that half the greedy bastards that wanted to destroy this world ended up as Carno fodder, chances are that no one's going to try to come back. How can they, it'll cost a damn fortune to rebuild Hope Plaza, and take years to re-establish a portal - even if they can get anyone to agree to let them do it. This is the first time in four years that I've really felt that we're not in any danger from the future."

He rearranges the bouquet slightly so that it's a little more central on the plot, "It's hard to believe how things have changed around here. Maddy Shannon all grown up, married and with a daughter. Even Malcolm found a wife - you should see his little girl, Wash - blue eyes just like his, though Max's are brown, so they may go that way before she grows up. Now that we've destroyed what's left of that damned Phoenix camp, it's like a whole weight's lifted off his shoulders as much as mine. You'd be amazed how much he doesn't annoy people any more. Well, doesn't annoy people as much." He adds, as a slight joke.

He sits for a while, lost in memories. In some ways, while he's relieved that Lucas's crazy plan to try and reconnect a fracture to the portal that opened for the eleventh Pilgrimage failed, and wouldn't have worked anyway; if it had, then he might not be having this conversation with a headstone. Having overseen three marriages in the last year, there's one that he would've wanted more than anything - his own. But the woman he would have wanted to marry lies in the grave beside him, and instead he grieves for the opportunity that was taken away. The forest trees wave in the breeze, their leaves set to a whispering that, he fancies, is her voice.

"I loved you, Alicia." He says, simply, abandoning his usual nickname for the woman that he loves - even if she is no longer present, "If I could've saved you, I would've done - your courage and dignity deserved better. I'm proud of the way you faced him down; but if I could've come to get you, then you and I…" he breaks off. What point is there? Regrets won't bring her back, nor will they put a ring on her finger. Lucas took her away from him, and now Lucas has paid for it - his grave far across at the other end of the field, unregarded, unvisited.

He sighs; there _is_ a point. She doesn't deserve to be forgotten any more than she deserved to die - so he won't. He looks at the headstone, "I love you, Alicia." He changes the tense; she may be gone, but that at least, remains immutable, "I'll never forget you."

There's no reply. There never is.

Rising to his feet, he rests his hand briefly on the headstone, then turns and heads back to the Compound. He has a welcoming party to prepare for.

* * *

While Terra Nova as a community does not eschew religion entirely, it isn't really a place founded on religious principles, so the presence of a Chaplain is important to some, but not others. He has officiated at all three of the recent weddings, a change from the more usual business of funerals, but today he is a guest rather than officiating. The ceremony is something that Yseult's team have pushed for - partly because she is so liked by them all, but also because the only other ceremony due in the next month or so is commemoration, and they don't want Erin's welcome into the community to be associated with deaths.

Ninette and Jacinta have worked their magic with fabric again, with the assistance of the hobbyist lace maker. While not a christening gown _per se_ , the lovely white dress that Erin wears is a pretty affair of fine cotton and lace, and she looks very much as though she should be being held over a font. Yseult, meanwhile, has opted to wear her green cotton dress again, while Malcolm has dug out the suit he wore for the wedding, as he has nothing else even remotely formal.

The sun is low, as they've opted to hold the ceremony in the evening, so that everyone who wants to can attend, but also so that it can move straight into a party once matters are concluded. As the ceremony consists largely of Taylor giving Erin a quick welcome, the party will start rather sooner than it might for an actual christening, but it's the thought, after all, that counts.

In Taylor's mind, tonight is, more than anything else, an opportunity to leave the last few years as thoroughly behind as possible. The spectre of his son has lingered over the Colony for long enough. The young man is dead now, and all his crazy dreams have died with him. He knows that he will always carry the guilt over whether or not he could've got through to Lucas - but the cruelty of his son's attempts at revenge have not impacted solely upon him. Malcolm was brutally caught in the crossfire, and it's taken a year or more for those wounds to heal: tonight is for him, and for his adored wife and daughter - and that was the real reason why he acquiesced so quickly to the Sustainable team's requests to have something more formal to welcome Erin into the community.

As evening draws in, he asks Malcolm and Yseult to join him at the steps up to the Command Centre, as there is no stage for them to use. Despite being considered the Colony's honorary granddad, he is nonetheless nervous about taking Erin, though she seems utterly unconcerned at being handled by a stranger. Not that he's _exactly_ a stranger, of course.

"Back in 2144," He begins, "I met my new Chief Science Officer, and, despite knowing how good he was at his job, he annoyed the hell out of me. He was pedantic, complained all the time and was such a smartass that I lost count of the number of times I wanted to kick that smart ass of his back down these very steps."

People laugh, while Malcolm has the grace to go a little red - he knows that Taylor is hardly making it up, after all.

"Then, in 2146, I welcomed a team of low-tech experts, and they got to work at the far end of the Colony, and I pretty much forgot all about them for the next three years, and I was wondering why I'd decided to get them in given that we'd more or less ironed out our supply problems."

He exchanges a glance with Yseult, who smiles at him.

"In 2149, I found out just how wrong I was about my Chief Science Officer. He faced down people thinking he was a coward, helped my team, and put himself at risk to fight back against Weaver on the inside."

"Hear hear!" Jim calls across. If nothing else, that experience taught him much the same.

"Fast forward to 2151, and I finally remember that bunch of people I brought in on the seventh, who've been busy while I've not been thinking about them. Little did I know that I was introducing the parents of this little one. It took 'em long enough to get together, and they've both been through the mill since then - more than anyone should have to be. But that's over and done - and, like all of us, they're looking to the future. _Our_ future." He looks up at everyone who has gathered - a remarkably large number of people - and smiles, "I give you Erin Leyna Wallace."

Everyone present erupts into cheers and applause. For her part, Erin looks up at Taylor briefly, and dozes off to sleep.

* * *

"You look tired." Elisabeth comments, as Yseult sips at some juice and stifles a yawn.

"That's because you were right." She smiles back, "It didn't last."

"How often does she wake?"

"Not enormously frequently, but enough for me to be a bit of a zombie during the day these days. I don't know how Malcolm manages it - he wakes up as well."

Elisabeth smiles, "I have a spy in the camp." She reminds Yseult, "Believe me, it knocks him out just as much - the difference is that he keeps on falling asleep at his desk. Maddy's caught him at least twice."

They look across at Malcolm, who is talking to Jim while Erin snoozes comfortably in his arms, "He's really taken to it, hasn't he?" Elisabeth says.

"He has." Yseult laughs, "Even changing her - though he tends to refer to that as 'engaging in chemical warfare'."

"I've never heard it described quite like that before - but I get what he means." Elisabeth laughs, as they wander over to join their respective husbands.

The folk band is playing again, and people are dancing; but Malcolm and Yseult have withdrawn to the side of the marketplace where they sit together comfortably. He still has Erin, and he looks down at her frequently, as though he still can't quite believe that she's real.

"I never believed this would happen." He says, yet again. He's lost count of the number of times he's expressed his astonishment at finally procreating, "But I'm looking at it. You, and Erin. I still can't believe how lucky I am."

"Nor can I." She snuggles against him, her hand stroking softly over Erin's head, "I thought my life was over when Niall died - but it was just on hold until you came along."

He leans back against the wall, looking out across the marketplace. Jim and Elisabeth are attempting to waltz, Maddy and Mark are sitting close together with Mark gently bouncing Elisabeth Rose up and down on his knee, while Josh and Skye are so close together that everyone's wondering when he's going to do the honours and present her with a ring. Taylor is back up on his balcony, watching over proceedings with that remarkably paternal air, and the atmosphere is one of such celebratory contentment that he feels almost as though nothing bad could ever happen again.

There's nothing left from the future to harm their world now - no one understands as much as he does that rebuilding Hope Plaza is a pipe dream that will almost certainly never come to fruition. The only people who would be able to fund such work wouldn't want to establish the place as a refuge, being interested solely in financial gain; but given the disaster that befell their first attempt, particularly after all they'd put into it, who would want to risk it again? Being slaughtered by a dinosaur is not the kind of return on investment that corporate fat cats would be looking for, after all. No. He can't see it happening. Besides, where the hell are they going to find another Lucas Taylor? They'll need one if they're going to succeed in such an endeavour. Who would be able to replicate his work now that he's dead? Regardless of his crazed obsessions, he was a mathematical genius, the like of which is not likely to come again for years, if ever. There was, after all, only one Einstein, one Hawking…

No. It's over. They're safe. _He's_ safe. No one will come to take him away from his family. His days of being a valuable commodity are done, and he can look forward to a future as a husband and father in a clean world full of opportunity. Cradling Erin in one arm, he sets the other about Yseult's shoulders, and kisses her on the top of her head. He is free, he is secure; and he is home. Smiling with quiet contentment, he watches as the colonists dance.

* * *

From his vantage point, Taylor maintains his watch upon the community over which he presides. For the first time, he feels a sense of freedom from the threats that crowded about him from the moment he discovered the intentions for his new world, and the precipitate actions he took to prevent it. The second chance he had hoped for now a true possibility. Whatever it was about the Badlands that the Phoenix Battalion were so keen to find, not to mention its strange, wooden delivery - that's a problem for another day. There was no point in doing so while their enemies were out there - but now they are not; and, should he wish to do so, he can go and see what it might be for himself.

For the first time in a few weeks, he allows himself to think of his son. Did he know what it was? Would he have been able to do something beneficial had he not been so obsessed with revenge? It's impossible to know - and certainly, for Taylor, impossible to guess; the scientific concepts involved go way, way over his head. Maybe, if he ever feels up to going back there, Malcolm might be able to figure it out. If he doesn't - would it even matter? What possibilities might it offer, or what dangers might it impose? What if it _were_ possible to change what's past...

 _Don't think that...what's done is done._

"Would I be that crazy, Wash?" he addresses the empty air, "risk throwing everything to hell just for my own personal benefit?" Lucas tried that - and look where it got him, and everyone else, for that matter. No - if nothing else, he is one to learn from mistakes; his own, or others', "Even if I tried - and succeeded, something tells me it'd be godawful, and you'd never forgive me for it."

There's no reply; but behind him, the leaves whisper softly in a passing breeze - so maybe, just this once, there is.

* * *

And so, we are done...thanks for reading, and I'm glad so many people have enjoyed this story; thank you for your lovely reviews and messages.

For those who'd like to see, you can view the various tartans associated with Clan Wallace at the Clan Wallace Society Website (just select 'Tartans' from the menu at the top of the screen). Anyone who reads the blurb alongside the 'Wallace Blue' example and _doesn't_ snort with amusement has more laughter control than I do...


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